


The Difference A Soul Makes

by FalconLux



Series: W.I.P. Collection [15]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Ancient Harry, And only physical age, BAMF Harry, Brief mentions of child abuse, But nothing below 15 or 16 at worst, Dark Harry, Decent Malfoys, Dursleys are awful, Genius Harry, M/M, Magical Theory, Minimal Bashing of anyone, Necromancy, Or maybe Dark Gray Harry, Possible Chan, Rating May Change, Reincarnation, Sane Voldemort, Slice of Life, Tags May Change, Tags may be added, Work In Progress, world building
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-02-28
Updated: 2020-05-08
Packaged: 2021-02-28 01:15:09
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Underage
Chapters: 6
Words: 30,915
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22945375
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FalconLux/pseuds/FalconLux
Summary: Thanks to a ritual in his first life, he’s been reincarnating for millennia. Every death has resulted in being born anew nine months later. He’s always magical, always male, and always in possession of all his memories, but always in a different body and of a different family. This time, he has been born to a naive young couple with high ideals and little understanding but an enormous well of love for their son that he cannot fault. This time, he is called Harry Potter.This story is a Work In Progress. It is not finished. It may never be finished. Updates will be sporadic. READ AT YOUR OWN RISK.
Relationships: Harry Potter/Voldemort | Tom Riddle, Lucius Malfoy/Narcissa Malfoy, Severus Snape/?
Series: W.I.P. Collection [15]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/398941
Comments: 386
Kudos: 2206
Collections: Extraordinary Harry Potter FanFics, Fics that I want to read once they are complete, Inspiration, Primus Inter Pares, i have seen your heart and it is mine





	1. Chapter 1

**1980**

He didn’t know why, but it always began at the moment of birth. As in, the moment his body became independent from his mother’s body. Given a choice, he’d honestly rather it started a week later. Or a month. Or even a year or so. The beginning was always so tedious. Well, the very beginning was really rather painful. It took a week before the aches and pains began to fade. Being born was such a violent experience. Everything hurt from the process of the birth. His eyes smarted terribly as they’d never before seen light. His skin felt positively frozen as it was the first time he’d been exposed to air and he was soaking wet.

And, of course, what he was waking up to was only half the problem. There was also the fact that his last memory was of dying. It wasn’t so bad when he’d died peacefully in his bed or something, but a sudden death was always so shocking. This time it had been a gunshot of all the ridiculous muggle ways to die. When he was old enough, he was going to summon the soul of the long-dead fool who’d situated the entrance to that particular magical alleyway in that neighborhood and make his displeasure known.

“Is he okay?” an exhausted woman’s voice inquired, though it was distorted and muffled in his newborn ears.

“He’s right as rain, mam,” the answer came from the woman holding him. A moment later, he was transferred into another’s arms and he looked up with blurry eyes at the face of what must be his mother this time. He could make out pale skin, red hair, and green eyes.

“He’s so beautiful,” she crooned at him lovingly.

Oh, good. He’d had a few mothers who were indifferent or worse when he was born. Once he’d been the product of a rape, which had made her hate him from the start. Having a mother so enamored of him was a good sign for a comfortable childhood.

Another face soon joined hers in looking down on him. This one male with marginally darker skin, black hair, and dark eyes. “Hi, Harry,” the man greeted, looking just as ridiculously in love as the woman. “I’m your daddy.”

Harry could have sighed in relief at finding them both so happy to see him. The early years of his life could be more than merely a trial without proper caretakers. His magic was almost useless with such an underdeveloped body with which to channel it and far too weak to do anything on his own. Many times, he’d died of excessive neglect or abuse before he was strong enough to take care of and defend himself. It sucked. A lot.

When a nipple was presented to him a short time later, he let go of his thoughts for the time being and let the comforting ritual of nursing lull his tired mind and aching body into rest.

* * *

*** * * * ***

* * *

England, apparently, was dealing with a Dark Lord. One powerful enough to actually succeed in his quest, unlike the average Dark Lord, who was little more than a nuisance until local law enforcement managed to destroy him. Or her.

Annoyingly, his parents were vehemently opposed, not only to this particular Dark Lord, but to the Dark in general. He, Harry now, had been around an incredibly long time at this point. He’d lived a great many lives. He understood magic better than most ever would. Ever could. His magic had never been other than average in might. The only reason he’d managed what none other, to his knowledge, had managed in extending his time within the mortal plane endlessly through reincarnation was because of his grasp of magic. What it was. And what it was not.

Magic was not Good or Evil. It was not malicious or benign. Magic was a giver of life and a destroyer of life. It was without conscience. Without morals or boundaries. To classify all magic and those who prefer it as fitting a moral standard was as childish as it was cruel. It was prejudice, pure and simple. Some people were just more drawn to certain types of magic because their magical cores resonated with it. Different kinds of magic were better for certain things.

As some muggles were stronger and thus better suited for labor jobs and others were very clever and suited for research and inventing. Some were aggressive and brave and well suited for military pursuits. With magic, it was the same. Light and Dark were arbitrary political categories used to sort what the current regime considered desirable types of magic from undesirable ones. And it changed by village, by country, by political leader. Necromancy, blood magic, evocation, illusion, enchantment, alchemy, potions, herbology, weather magic, elemental magic, transfiguration, and so many more. Some schools of magic were cut into pieces with some of it being considered acceptable and other parts evil whereas others were exclusively forbidden for no more reason than what was convenient to a particular ruler or political party. It was lunacy.

Heresy even, to those who properly understood magic.

Unfortunately, Harry didn’t suspect that he’d be changing their minds without something drastic occurring. They were too convinced that they were right.

Admittedly, it sounded like the “Dark” they were fighting against were earning their reputation for the most part, as this Dark Lord seemed fairly insane, possibly due to misusing magic. Granted, that likely wasn’t his fault. From what he could gather, the current regime was so severe on Dark Magic that anything they considered thus wasn’t taught _at all_ to children. Lacking that instruction, it wasn’t the smallest bit surprising that enterprising, intelligent, powerful adolescents and young adults who felt drawn to such magic would make foolish mistakes.

It was shortly after his first birthday that Harry learned of the prophecy due to his parents discussing it in the next room. He didn’t get the exact wording, but he did get that there was apparently a prophecy that pointed to him or some other boy his age being the only one capable of defeating the Dark Lord that was terrorizing the good Light-loving folk of the country. That’s why they moved around so much — every few weeks, a new house. A new safehouse.

But they didn’t want to run anymore. They were going under the Fidelius spell to hide. It was a spell that had been around a long time. A spell that had actually gone out of favor in the last few centuries. It had one colossal drawback that made it largely undesirable compared to other wards. It required the secret to be held by one individual that was not a part of it. Meaning that the secret of where their family lived could not be held by anyone that was a part of the family or lived in that location. It was a lot of trust to place in someone.

His parents chose to place that trust in a childhood friend of James. Someone that had been close to him since they were eleven years old.

It was six weeks after the Fidelius was cast and they were settled into the small cottage in Godric’s Hallow, that their trust proved to have been mistaken.

“It’s Him! Take Harry! Take Harry and run!”

Harry heard the words echo up the stairs and felt his heart sink as he sat up in his crib.

Feet thundered up the stairs even as a battle was audible below. Harry watched the door silently for long moments before it was flung open. Lily was only halfway across the room when the chilling words, “Avada Kedavra!” rang out below, followed by the distinctive sound of a body collapsing limply to the floor.

Lily screamed and ran back to slam shut the door of the nursery, as though it would slow down the Dark Lord. Then she ran back to the crib and scooped Harry up into her arms, holding him tightly to her chest as though she could protect him from the nightmare below through sheer force of will.

Harry processed the fact that his father was dead and he and his mother were sitting ducks awaiting their death. Lily didn’t have her wand on her, that much was obvious.

Merlin, what fools. Such trust they had in their friend. Their obviously traitorous friend. They’d honestly thought themselves safe. Safe enough to not have their wands on them constantly. Safe enough to have no contingency plan for such a situation as they now found themselves. No escape tunnel, either physical or magical. He silently cursed the wasted two years spent in this life. Nine months growing inside his mother — he was never conscious of it, but the gap between his previous lives was always the exact term of his mother’s pregnancy — and then fifteen months as a helpless baby. He wasn’t looking forward to starting it over again.

There was also a sadness for his parents in this life. They were naive children in way over their heads, but their love for him had been very real. They’d never shown any hint of conditionality to their affection for him. They’d always been patient and understanding, despite the fact he was too quiet, too watchful, too mature, too intelligent. These things had caused some of his parents and caretakers over the centuries to abuse him in their fear or distaste. James and Lily had shown some concern, but once assured of his health, they’d embraced his differences as “unique” and “special”. They were foolish and narrow-minded, but they were good parents.

And they were in the process of putting themselves between him and certain death. Even if they weren’t able to actually save him, the thought did count. He’d known enough parents, both his own and others, who’d have willingly offered him up in an attempt to save their own lives, even if they knew it would be pointless.

The door was blasted open behind Lily, who curved her body around him as a shield, before hastily depositing him back in his crib and turning to face the danger, once again using her body to shield him, even if it wouldn’t be enough this time.

“Not Harry. Please, not Harry. Have mercy!”

Harry sighed quietly, hoping that this Dark Lord would at least make their deaths as quick as his father’s had been. Lily didn’t deserve torture or rape. Personally, Harry preferred an Avada Kedavra if he was going to die. Quick and painless and less disorienting than dying in his sleep. Just a sudden cessation and then his next conscious thought would be about nine months later as he began his next life.

“Stand aside, girl! You don’t need to die. Stand aside.”

Harry frowned curiously at that. The Dark Lord was going to let her live? An avowed enemy, pawn of the Light, and a muggleborn to boot? How very curious.

Lily and the Dark Lord went back and forth a few times, with him trying to get her to stand aside and let him kill Harry and her begging for mercy and offering herself instead.

Harry was touched by her devotion, though he really wished she’d just stand aside. There was no way Harry was going to live through this, but he wished that Lily could. Still, having been a parent himself many times, he understood well that living with her husband and son murdered may well be a punishment worse than death.

Finally, as Harry had expected, the Dark Lord grew impatient with her and gave in to her pleas to die in Harry’s place with an irritable, “Very well,” followed by the bright green light of the Killing Curse. Harry silently gave thanks for Lily’s quick and painless end, turning his eyes up to meet those of the Dark Lord. The man was definitely suffering severely from his misuse of magic. His skin was waxy, pale, and thin. His hair a sparse collection of frail strands swept back over his skull. His features sunken as though with a prolonged sickness, far too gaunt for any semblance of health. His eyes a burning crimson that fluctuated like actual fires burned within him, a sign that his magic was wildly unstable. His thin, chapped lips pulled into a rictus of mad glee.

“You don’t look so impressive,” the man hissed to himself.

Hah, he was one to talk.

Harry frowned a bit as he considered the rising tide of magic in the air as this Dark Lord lifted his wand to point at Harry. The tip glowed the brilliant green of the Killing Curse and Harry found himself more and more intrigued by what he was feeling. His body was still so young and undeveloped that using his magic in any deliberate way was almost impossible, but he was able to sense, to some degree, the magic around him. And this felt like...

His eyes widened as he played it back in his head. Three times his mother offered herself in Harry’s place. Three times. A powerful magical number. Three times she offered, and then the Dark Lord said... _Very well_ , before killing her. It was... But surely not.

“Avada Kedavra!” the Dark Lord said for the third time that night, his voice filled with elation.

And the magic that Harry had been feeling in the air suddenly multiplied exponentially and the blinding green light caught in that magic and was flung back into the Dark Lord along with the rest of the angry magic.

Harry watched in amazement as the Dark Lord came apart in front of him, literally falling into particles that floated on the air like dust, his wand and robes dropping to the floor. He’d been around a very long time and that was one of the most incredible things he’d ever seen. How degraded had that Dark Lord been to have not felt what must have been an incredibly painful warning from his magic as he prepared to break the magical contract he’d unintentionally made with Lily?

Before Harry could more than have that thought, the magic swelled again and there was a ripple to the air and a strong scent of sulfur filled the room as a shade shoved its way through the veil back into the Land of the Living.

Harry's eyes snapped wide in shock, but before he could even process what was happening, the shade turned on him, still vital enough for those manic red eyes to shine out of it, fixed on Harry with infinite rage. It launched itself right at him and he flinched back, just managing to turn his head enough that it collided with the side of it rather than the front, and then everything dissolved into endless depths of agony that lasted an eternity.

* * *

*** * * * ***

* * *

Harry’s next lucid moment was being jarred harshly as the large basket he was lying in was all but tossed onto the floor. He blinked open his eyes to a shrill voice screeching for someone named Vernon. He looked around uncertainly, identifying muggle light fixtures and what looked to be a very muggle home. He had a vague recollection of his parents’ friend Sirius picking him up, a flying motorbike, a very large hairy man, and... He couldn’t pick apart anything else. It was a blur. His head was still throbbing furiously and that woman’s horrid voice wasn’t helping anything.

In an effort to make sense of his new circumstances, he tried to pay attention to what was happening around him. His parents had been murdered by the Dark Lord, he remembered. The Dark Lord had accidentally made and then immediately violated a magical contract that saved Harry’s life and disintegrated the Dark Lord. He still didn’t know what to make of that last bit. There was some kind of soul magic at work, that kept the Dark Lord’s shade among the living, but what he had done to Harry in that last moment... That, Harry could not work out.

A large man with an overlarge mustache had joined the shrill woman now and they were both looking at him like he was some kind of diseased stray dog they’d taken into their house and now wanted to quietly dispose of.

This didn’t seem promising. How had he ended up with these people? And why?

The woman reached down toward him and he pushed himself further into the basket as his only means of escape. His body still felt abominably weak after whatever had happened. She drew back with a letter clutched in her hand and Harry realized that it had been tucked into the basket with him.

His mind struggled to process what was happening to him. His parents had been murdered. Sirius, his godfather, had come and gotten him. 

...and tucked him into a basket with a note before dropping him at this muggle place with these people that simply screamed “horrible” at a mere glance?

Why?

“The spawn of my horrible sister!” the woman was hissing, looking at him like he was some sort of demon.

And Harry had seen that look before. He was always born magical, but not always to magical parents. Twice he’d been born to human parents who had thought him a monster or a demon or possessed due to his magic, which he could not control or suppress entirely in his youth, even if he tried.

He had a feeling that his comfortable childhood was at an end.

He just hoped that he survived it. That or that they killed him soon.

When he was unceremoniously shoved into a dark cupboard under the stairs a few minutes later, he did his best to brace himself for the worst.

* * *

*** * * * ***

* * *

Shortly after Harry turned two Petunia held his head under the water in the bath until he was on the verge of passing out before she leapt away from him like she’d been burned and promptly ran from the room, leaving him to regain his breath and make his own shaky way out of the tub. He’d honestly thought she’d kill him then, but it seemed that she had not the courage to take his life, after all. Not like that.

From then on, he was expected to bathe without assistance.

He was four when his magic slipped his control during a very painful and uncalled-for spanking from his uncle. He wasn’t exactly sure what it had done, but he’d felt his magic surge and then his uncle had flung him to the floor and finished his punishment with hard kicks that had definitely damaged him inside. He’d been thrown into his cupboard after, and he’d watched the blood pool beneath the skin of his stomach and he’d fallen into unconsciousness, expecting death. He’d woken late the next day with a lot of pain, but the worst of the damage apparently healed by his magic while he slept.

Future spankings were carried out with a cane from as much distance as Vernon could manage.

When he was five, Dudley shoved him down the stairs. He’d ended up with a broken ankle, at least one broken rib, and a plethora of bruises, but he’d survived it. And he’d learned that the poison spouted by his parents had been sufficient that Dudley would kill him without thought simply because he’d never been taught it was wrong. His parents consistently encouraged him in his torment of Harry with no more explanation than that he was a Freak and a Burden.

Harry soon learned to be always on guard and to run fast.

When he was six, Petunia caught him upside the head with a frying pan. He was then tossed into his cupboard, vomiting, dizzy, disoriented, with a splitting headache, and certain only that there was a high chance he was going to die. Amazingly, he’d woken late the following day, a scab, a bruise, and a cake of dried blood stuck to his face, but his skull seemingly back in one piece and his brain unscrambled.

He’d learned to take more care to duck fast after that.

He couldn’t remember his magic ever being so proactive in healing him so early in his life before, without the aid of any sort of rituals to direct his magic. Though his body had to grow into his magic in each life, the magic itself was always exactly the same. The same magical signature. The same strength, honestly a bit below average. The same natural talents. Which meant the change had to have been affected by something that happened during this life. He could only guess it was related to his run-in with the Dark Lord, but he couldn’t imagine what could have caused such a result.

At seven, his uncle chucked him out of a moving car in London, and Harry figured he’d officially been kicked out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I've been tinkering with this idea for a long time. I had planned to wait and develop it a little further before posting, but it's been speaking to me of late, and I felt the need to share.
> 
> It's rather different from anything else I've got going, so let me know what y'all think.


	2. Chapter 2

**1987**

At seven, his uncle chucked him out of a moving car in London, and Harry figured he’d officially been kicked out.

Blessedly, his magic cushioned his fall, leaving him with scrapes and bruises, but no broken bones or large chunks of abraded skin. He pulled himself painfully to a sitting position on the curb and realized he should have suspected it when Vernon had insisted Harry ride in the passenger seat rather than the back.

He put his chin in his hands and tried to decide what to do next.

He was seven years old. His control of his magic was coming along, but still extremely shaky. He could probably count it good enough for basic self-defense, but not much more.

There was always the option to just find a policeman and report what had happened, but he’d been a ward of the State before, and he really would rather live on the street if at all possible. He preferred to be master of his own life as much as he could manage, even as a child. He supposed he might consider himself lucky this had happened now and not a few years earlier when he’d have had no choice but to seek protection from an adult.

Seven was still young, but it was entirely possible that another year or two with the Dursleys may have been enough to get him killed considering how they seemed to come close to it at least once every year. And the parts in between hadn’t been too pleasant, either. The larger Dudley grew, the more dangerous he’d become. Harry wouldn’t be at all surprised if Dudley managed to kill someone before he hit puberty. He was that reckless with his bullying, and Harry was far from his only target. Granted, spending the rest of his childhood and adolescence in State custody might be the best thing for him considering the way his parents were raising him.

Harry pulled himself to his feet, ignoring the pains engendered by the movement, and started walking down the sidewalk, looking for signs and trying to get his bearings. It’d been a while since he’d been in London. Not since... 1930 or so. His last life had been lived primarily in Brazil. The one before that in the U.S. He’d avoided WWII in the thirties and forties, dying shortly after its end. His last life he’d chosen the life of a scholar and spent it quietly amassing knowledge, conducting research, and earning his living as a writer of text and reference books. It had actually been quite enjoyable and he was more than a little incensed about the untimely end of it due to something as stupid as muggle gang violence. He’d fully intended that life to be a longer one. He’d already been putting together the ingredients for the rituals he’d need to keep himself alive and youthful far beyond what was natural.

It took a bit of walking, but London was a fairly old city. Old enough that fifty-some years hadn’t changed all that much. Not below a cosmetic level, at least. It took him a little over an hour to reach the main entrance to the magical world. It was still a pub called the Leaky Cauldron. The magical world tended to change rather slowly, so it wasn’t that surprising.

He’d gained unwanted attention a couple of times in the course of his walk, but a bright smile and an assurance that “mum” wasn’t far was enough to get him moving again unimpeded. People didn’t want to believe the worst, he’d found, so convincing them that everything was fine was generally easier than it rightly should be.

He slipped quickly through the pub and made his way directly to Gringotts. When the goblin teller leaned over the desk to get a look at his diminutive form, he just said succinctly, “I would like to visit Vault 13.”

The goblin stared a moment longer, then called for a cart goblin to take him down. Vault 13 was in the lowest levels of the bank. Harry had, in a previous life, seen the benefit of keeping some things accessible at the bank. It was a fairly new establishment. The gnomish bank was much older but had only two locations in the world in China and Switzerland. Gringotts’ vaults could be accessed from eighteen magical countries last he’d heard. When they’d begun to spread, he’d seen the sense in making use of the convenience of their prolific nature.

He didn’t keep large sums of wealth or priceless items in the bank simply because of his general lack of trust in anyone or anything. He had all of his most valuable items concealed within the very foundations of his childhood home.

That is, his first childhood.

He also had caches concealed all over the world. He’d see about accessing those later, probably. For the moment, it was much easier to get the basics he needed at Gringotts.

The lowest vaults were more widely separated than the newer vaults, and could not even be approached by one without access. The means of access also varied by vault. A key, obviously, would be pretty difficult to pass to himself from one life to the next when he never knew who he’d be next, or even on which continent he’d be born or in what state his last body would be left. Instead, his access was granted by his magical signature, which remained constant through every life.

The goblin let him off at the little, rough-cut tunnel that led to his vault and Harry passed through the runes lining the tunnel that would prevent his approach if he didn’t have the right magical signature. Just having this vault was costing him 200 galleons a year, but he was paid up through the year 2200, so he wasn’t worried. The bank had instructions to remind him to re-up his advanced payment when only thirty years remained.

The vault door opened easily at his touch and he stepped inside. It wasn’t overly large. A medium-sized room with chests filling out shelves lining every wall. In the center of the room was a pallet piled with precious metals cast in bars, a wooden crate filled with loose gems, and a barrel filled with assorted wands, rods, and staffs, with circlets and other various foci hung on hooks around the outside edge.

He went to the foci first. Wands were precision instruments, which became popular about 2000 years ago. His immature magic wouldn’t respond well to them. The larger staffs and rods, however, would work much better for blunt force casting, which was as much as he could be expected to manage at his age. He ran his hand through the selection, seeing how well his magic responded. While the magical signature was a big part of what made the foci work, his body and mind were also part of it. His magic stayed the same. His mind was ever, if slowly, evolving. His body changed entirely with each life. So even though all of these were decently suited, some would work better than others.

The walking stick he settled on was a surprise because it had never suited very well at all in the past. He wondered if that was related to the strange new trick his magic had developed for healing him this time around. The stick was a pale birch wood, the handgrip at the top a simple moonstone sphere encased in a delicate gold mesh. The handgrip would sit around hip height on the average man. For Harry’s presently diminutive form, it came to his shoulder. Thanks to the pittance he was granted to eat with those repulsive Dursleys, he was quite short for his age.

He gave the staff a little twirl and felt his magic sing. Even after only seven years, it felt good to have his magic becoming more responsive again.

Satisfied, he used the staff to levitate a couple of chests down from their shelves. He inspected the contents to see that his memory of their contents was correct. Three of the magically enchanted spaces were filled with books and scrolls, all copies. The originals were stored in his main cache. The fourth chest was filled with clothes of various sizes and basic household items and supplies. He’d learned a very long time ago that preparing caches such as this saved him a world of headache.

It wasn’t always feasible to travel around the world when he needed something he’d hidden away, after all. At present, for example, he had no real means given his age. It wouldn’t be impossible for him, of course, but unnecessarily troublesome.

He found in the chest a plain black robe of approximately his size and threw that on over his ragged muggle attire, then levitated down one more chest, this one filled with copies of all of his own books and grimoires, excluding the last few. It had been a while since he’d updated this vault, unfortunately. He really hadn’t expected to die so young in his last life. It may very well be worth it to imbue his new body with strengthening and protection rituals as soon as possible. He was getting arrogant in his old age, it seemed, to have neglected such last time.

He shrunk down each of the chests with the built-in feature on them and slipped them into his pockets. That done, he grabbed one of the smallish gold bars and headed back to meet the goblin.

When he was returned to the lobby, grateful that his current body did not suffer motion sickness, he took the gold bar to a teller and sold it for a bag of galleons. It was very beneficial to him to keep the pure gold rather than galleons because it wouldn’t depreciate in value and was universally accepted regardless of which currencies were in use in that country that year.

His next step was a bookstore. He hadn’t really kept up much with current events in Britain during his last life, much less the last seven years. He needed a basic grasp on the political climate.

He walked into Flourish & Blotts to look for the most recent modern history book he could find, but he didn’t quite make it as far as that because he was stopped by a rather large selection of books with his name on the front and the picture of a young boy with an exact copy of the scar on his forehead and an otherwise superficial resemblance to him.

Suddenly self-conscious, he made sure the scar near his temple was covered by his fringe, then scanned through the books, which appeared to be fictional representations of the Boy-Who-Lived and his adventures growing up.

What in the name of Magic?

He didn’t linger too long in front of the books that appeared to have no factual value at all. He did, however, keep his eyes open for more books bearing his name or the Boy-Who-Lived moniker. Disturbingly, there was quite a selection with one or both of those.

He managed to gather that they’d credited him with defeating the Dark Lord that had killed his parents. Of all the ludicrous ideas… If anyone could be credited with killing Voldemort, Harry could only attribute it to Voldemort himself. The man had given Lily the chance to live and then not realized when her fervent pleas and his careless words had created the magical vow. He’d mutilated himself so severely with his ill-considered use of Dark magic that he’d not even felt the vow warning him against turning the killing curse on Harry.

Even discounting all of that though, why would anyone decide that the baby in the scenario was deserving of the credit? Why not some protection that James or Lily put into place? Wouldn’t that make more sense than a fifteen-month-old baby with no magical control at all?

Thoroughly vexed, Harry picked up a couple of different modern history books, sort of hoping at least one of them would make some kind of sense. With the books tucked into an expanded pocket, Harry made his way to Knockturn Alley, the one place that no one was going to worry about a vagrant child. The muggle world had been making strides to look after their children better, which was good for those who were actually children. The wizarding world wasn’t so progressive in that area just yet. At least, not in any area he’d been recently. It didn’t take long for him to determine that he was correct in his assumptions. Knockturn was the main shopping alley, but the warren of small streets branching away from it were much less prestigious businesses mixed in with cheap housing and the shanties pieced together by the homeless. 

He spent a few hours asking questions and tracking down a small, low rent flat. Luckily, no one in the area was going to worry about a child as young as him renting a place provided he could pay for it. It was a second story, one-bedroom place that would do well enough to work and live out of.

The first few days passed with just getting set up. Once his flat was decently equipped, he changed in a few more gold bars and bought himself a portable potions cupboard, which was really just an enchanted chest set up specifically to hold cauldrons, vials, tools, and shelf after shelf of ingredients. It would allow him to have an entire storage room of supplies stored in a single chest, which was rather necessary given the size of his flat.

Brewing in a kitchen wasn’t ideal, of course, but most potions would work under such circumstances if the brewer was competent enough.

Moving around alleys filled with dark creatures and criminals as a seven-year-old wasn’t the safest thing to do, of course, but it wasn’t as dangerous as one might imagine either. There were quite a number of children that lived in the area, actually. They did get preyed upon much more often than children elsewhere, but not so often that it was literal suicide for them.

A lot of it came down to attitude. If you looked like you didn’t belong, you’d be a target in a second, but Harry was good at looking like he belonged just about anywhere at just about any age.

An acquired skill.

Not to say that he didn’t run into the occasional thug trying to rob him — he was dressed a bit nicer than the average street rat — or hag trying to tempt him back to her hovel. A glare was usually enough to discourage them, and if they were too pushy, a shove of force from his staff would typically do the job. People who preyed on children were rarely willing or able to challenge anyone even slightly more than helpless.

His first order of business was to change his appearance. Reading through the modern history books had provided a detailed explanation of basically what he’d already guessed. Voldemort went to his house and died, so naturally the sole surviving baby was the savior.

Fucking morons.

A simple potion lengthened his hair. He snipped it off just below his shoulders and tied it back at his neck, controlling its natural urge to fly in every direction as his father’s had. A color-changing solution specialized for the eyes turned his bright green eyes a neutral brown. The notable scar on the right side of his forehead was taken care of with a simple blemish concealer salve. It spread on thick enough to cover the scar completely, then blended with the surrounding skin perfectly. It had to be reapplied every day and wouldn’t stand up to scrutiny if anyone actually tried to wipe it off, but it was effective enough.

With his longer hair pulled back off his forehead, if anyone did notice a superficial resemblance between him and the boy-who-lived, they could look at his forehead to assure themselves that he was not, in fact, Harry Potter.

It did irk him something rotten that the entirety of Magical Britain seemed convinced that he was some kind of Light Side messiah. Considering his magic had always leaned toward favoring the Dark, he found that misapprehension left a particularly bad taste in his mouth. He truly had nothing against Light magic. He simply found that Dark magic came more naturally to him.

Granted, for the larger portion of his life, there was no such thing as Light or Dark magic. It was all just magic back then, separated by its purpose only. When he’d first learned, there was life magic, death magic, and functional or day-to-day magic, which fit vaguely along the lines of light, dark, and neutral magic in present day, but none of it had been considered evil by itself. People could be evil. They could do evil things with magic. That didn’t make the magic itself evil.

As to his business, well, he’d done this sort of thing plenty of times before. He wasn’t usually quite this young on starting, but he’d had to face people’s skepticism over his age lots of times.

He started out by loitering around on Knockturn Alley and eavesdropping people’s conversations. Whenever he heard someone talk about some chronic ailment, terminal illness, or even just something very undesirable that he knew how to fix but they didn’t, he’d make them an offer.

Naturally, at first, he didn’t get anyone taking him seriously. Within a couple of weeks, however, there was someone desperate enough to give him a chance. His first customer was the victim of a particularly insidious infertility curse that was threatening to end his family line. He’d searched for a cure for literally years. Happily, he’d been able to pay for the rather exorbitant price of the ingredients necessary for the ritual. It was rather difficult to come by the blood of a healthy unborn child, virgin’s tears, and the seed of a healthy man, all magical, and all fresh to within 24 hours of the ritual being performed. The binding solution into which those ingredients were added had also required phoenix tears, which were always tricky to find.

It had worked though. His customer had confirmed twins on the way within a fortnight. He was so happy, in fact, that he’d spread the word far and wide of his miracle worker.

His second customer had been a fifteen-year-old girl desperate to end her pregnancy, which had resulted from a rape. Unfortunately for her, but fortunately for the child, abortion was impossible for a magical being. The woman’s magic guarded the fetus quite devotedly regardless of the woman’s feelings on the matter. Abortions tended to result in permanent magical disabilities, in which the magic is incredibly weakened or even entirely impossible to control. In some cases, it will even turn on its host and kill her. This girl had clearly heard that everywhere she’d asked and come hoping for a miracle.

Happily, Harry did know of one such possibility. Things like line theft had made the spell anathema virtually everywhere in the magical world shortly after it’s inception, but Harry’s memory was very long, his grimoires incredibly detailed. Though he could not terminate the pregnancy, he could relocate it to a willing surrogate. It wasn’t safe to do much beyond to 20th week as it proved too much strain on the receiving body, but his damsel was only at 18.

The desperate girl returned within hours with another woman in tow. Her elder sister, it turned out, who was willing to take on the pregnancy.

The willingness was key in this instance because the recipient of the baby had to accept it into her body and magic. While it was technically possible to work it against someone’s will, the rate of miscarriage was exceedingly high.

The ritual itself wasn’t that complicated. No rare, banned, or expensive ingredients required. Just a potion to prepare the receiving body, which had to be tailored to the exact age of the incoming fetus and menstrual phase of the receiving woman. The day after first meeting the girl, he was able to complete the ritual.

He cautioned both girls to a few days of bed rest if possible or as little activity as they could manage. He also suggested a mind healer for the girl and gave the mother-to-be as much information as he could about options for adoption and fostering should she find herself unable to raise the child once born. Britain had no resources for this, but the States were quite progressive when it came to magical orphans, as was Australia. There may be more countries coming around, but he wasn’t that well versed in the topic at the moment.

Every time he was able to solve someone’s problem, word spread a little bit further. The further it spread, the more mouths people heard it from, the more likely they were to believe. The more people believed, the more others were convinced.

Yes, it was true that he had more than enough accumulated wealth through his many lives that it wasn’t actually necessary that he work, particularly at such a young age. But what the hell would he do with himself if not?

He was good at entertaining himself, but he had many fewer options for entertainment and companionship as a child, so having work helped to fill the gap until he was old enough to make proper friends or complete a mastery. Visiting conferences around the world was another hobby of his. It was always so fascinating to see the best in various fields talking about their research and innovations. Another thing he couldn’t really do while he looked prepubescent.

There were, of course, potions and rituals capable of temporarily or permanently aging a body more swiftly than was natural, but the temporary ones worked for such a short period of time as to be impractical for use on more than a single short-term project. The aging was also entirely superficial with the magic and hormones of the individual remaining at the proper age.

As for the permanent ones… well, he tended to avoid them unless his youth was posing an immediate threat to his life. Growing up was an important part of life. Speeding that up tended to cause problems. With magic, they were generally subtle, but there. Problems such as weak bones, insufficiently dense muscle tissue, sensitive organs, and weak or incomplete magical pathways within the body. In extreme cases, hormone imbalances and emotional instability became permanent.

Now, Harry knew of ways to mitigate most of these risks, but he still preferred to avoid accelerated aging when possible. He felt like, as of now, it was possible.

Three months since his first customer, Harry got a desperate, newly turned werewolf looking for a cure. The poor guy begged for a cure, then in the same breath explained that he’d lost his family, his job, and his home in the span of a month and was barely managing to keep himself from dying of starvation or exposure in the three months since.

He’d apparently be an Unspeakable before his transformation and he refused to believe a cure was impossible.

With a sigh, Harry directed the man to the tiny nook containing three armchairs that Harry kept for consultations. He gave the man a bottle of ale because he thought it might be more appreciated than tea, and waited until he had his full attention.

“Do you know how lycanthropy works, sir?” he started.

“It’s like a disease, spread by bite or scratch by a transformed werewolf. Once the disease has infected the victim, it begins transforming the body, culminating on the night of the full moon with the first total change from man to wolf. During the transformation, the human mind is lost entirely and the wolf takes full control, running on instincts to kill humans and to eat,” he recited instantly from memory.

“Mostly correct,” Harry allowed. “The only point I’d really contest is that the werewolf seeks humans specifically.”

“There is documented evidence that a werewolf will remain amicable in the presence of a wizard transformed into an animagus form — an animal. Whereas if the same wizard approaches in natural form, the werewolf goes feral.” The man was calming down now. Arguing magical theory seemed much more in his comfort zone.

“Yes, if approached by a human, a werewolf will attack. I am postulating that the aggressive behavior is in response to a threat, not in blind rage or hunger. With regard to the animagi, that gets a bit more complicated. I’m not sure the sample size of the study you referenced or if that was anecdotal. What I can tell you from my experience is that a werewolf is as likely to attack a transformed animagus as they are any magical creature. While it is possible for a werewolf to equate such animals to neutral entities, or even pack, it is also possible they’ll be seen as a threat or a meal. Werewolves, when transformed, do seek to hunt and eat. Like real wolves, they look for something they consider prey. Whether it is human or animal does not necessarily factor in.”

The man was looking intrigued, “How do you know all of this?”

Harry smiled a little, “A great deal of study, my friend. I am not nearly so young as I appear. Now, to bring your attention back to the part of your description of the werewolf curse that you got right. You said that, from the moment of the bite until the first change, the curse is transforming the victim.

“In that, you are completely correct. Unfortunately, this also means that the only cure in existence can only function during that window of time. Once the first change has taken place, the transformation is complete. In essence, you have become a magical creature now, rather than a magical human. Every bit of your body from the smallest particle has changed on a fundamental level. It is the reason that you can see and hear and smell better even in human form. Why you are physically stronger. It is why you crave raw meat and why you are possessive and protective of what you consider to be yours. Why you are swift to anger when challenged.

“You _are_ a werewolf. It is not a curse that can be removed or a disease that can be cured.”

The man slumped like all the will to live had gone right out of him with that pronouncement.

“That is not to say that I cannot offer you help,” Harry added after a moment.

The werewolf looked up with raw but wary hope.

“Lycanthropy was originally created as a curse. It was meant to be a torment. Those afflicted, in the early days, often did not understand what was happening and they changed and slaughtered their entire family in their beds only to return to themselves in the morning and understand what they’d done. The pain of the transformation is horrible. The process is draining.

“So even though there is no cure, there is a means of controlling what you have become,” Harry explained.

“Wolfsbane,” the werewolf sighed, “Yes, I know of it. It’s incredibly expensive.”

“No,” Harry corrected. “Wolfsbane muzzles the wolf, yes. It also makes your weakness even more pronounced and causes sickness a week before and after the transformation. As it doesn’t even ameliorate the pain, it’s hardly an improvement on a single night of mindlessness. No, I am speaking of a potion that will, in essence, _complete_ the transformation you’ve undergone. It will carry your condition one step further. It will allow you to become one with your wolf. The instincts you feel will heighten somewhat but should be manageable still if you make an effort. Your senses will heighten further, your strength will increase even more. Your changes will become painless and virtually instantaneous. You will be able to change at will, like an animagus, though your condition will only be communicable under the full moon and you will still be forced to change at that time. You will no longer completely lose your mind. Because the wolf is a part of your consciousness, you will be part of its. As it gives you heightened instincts all the time, you will give it restraint and gain the ability to remember what happens during full moons.

“As I said, this is not a cure. It is simply a way to make your curse into an asset. Sadly, it will not remove the prejudice you face. That is far beyond my abilities.

“If you’re interested in the potion, the price is ten galleons. If you can’t afford that, I would be amenable to covering the price in trade. I often require ingredients that cannot be purchased locally and traveling at my current physical age is problematic. Owl ordering internationally is obscenely expensive. If you would be willing to travel to different international markets to procure my ingredients and return them to me, I would be willing to pay you for your time. You may be able to find other people living near Knockturn who would be willing to hire you as well.”

The werewolf had most of his ale left, and he finished it in a few long swallows, then stared hard at the bottle as he considered. “You’ve done this before?” he finally asked. “You’re sure it’ll work like you say? It won’t just make me worse?”

“I’m certain,” Harry confirmed. “It will return you full control of your life and your body. You’ll find your health improving considerably once you stop fighting the wolf. Full disclosure, it is possible to complete this transition without the potion. With a lot of meditation and a willingness to let your wolf into yourself completely, you can reach the same end. The potion just guides you through a process that most would find impossible to handle alone.”

Another long moment of silence passed while the werewolf picked at the label on his bottle. Finally, he nodded. “I’ll do it,” he said in a whisper. “I can’t… I can’t pay though.”

Harry nodded decisively and rose. He moved to the cabinet on the rear wall of the room and thumbed through a few papers until he found the right one, then brought it back. “This is a magical contract. It will bind you to honor our agreements while you work for me. Though the contract doesn’t expire, it will only be in effect while you are carrying out a task for me. It just ensures you can’t betray me. There is also a reciprocal promise from my end to pay you the agreed-upon fee upon completion of your tasks. There’s a bit about secrecy on both sides as well. Go ahead and read through it. If you are willing, sign it and I will as well. If you are not willing, then you will have to earn your ten galleons elsewhere. I’m afraid I’m not a very trusting sort.”

Harry then left the man to read through the contract. It wasn’t overly complicated. He drew up all of his contracts personally, which saved him on the obscene fees charged by the legal guilds and law firms. His contracts were pretty straightforward, but he’d been doing it long enough that he didn’t worry he was leaving loopholes. Once the wording was sorted, all that remained was the potion the parchment was soaked in prior to drawing them up and the specific runes inscribed along the border. There were many different variations depending on the purpose of the contract. This one was fairly binding and quite long-term. Indeed, if this man agreed to do a job for Harry a hundred years from now, this contract would still hold unless they amended it.

Considering the man had been an unspeakable, Harry didn’t doubt that he would be very thorough in not only reading the contract but examining the runes, so Harry busied himself with drawing up the shopping list he’d give the werewolf if he decided to take the job and putting together a purse with enough coin to cover the tab.

When he was finished with his shopping list, the werewolf was still looking over the contract, so Harry set to starting to draft a new blank contract to replace the one he hoped to soon be signing. It really would help him out to have someone that could run and get ingredients and such for him.

Eventually, Harry’s attention was drawn by the werewolf clearing his throat and he looked up to find the man sitting back, contract left on the tiny, low tea table between the trio of chairs. As he approached, Harry noted that the contract had been signed.

Harry took a few moments to scan over the contract himself. Yes, he’d written it, but he’d then left this man alone with it and a quill for half an hour. It wasn’t impossible that he could have made some small modification that would only be found if he was looking for it.

So he looked. As expected, he found nothing amiss and signed his own name to the contract.

“Merlin!” the man gasped and Harry glanced at him to find that the man was staring at where he’d signed his name.

With a sigh, Harry shook his head, “You’d do well to ignore everything my frankly ludicrous reputation says about me. It will only confuse you and likely lead you to pissing me off.”

Wisely, the werewolf took that comment as invitation to stay far away from anything relating to the topic of his identity.

Harry passed over the shopping list and coin purse with instructions on where he could expect to procure them. It would be a few stops because there were a number of things Harry had been needing. He gave the man a few days to get it done and promised that it would earn him the potion he wanted, which should be ready upon his return. Harry also informed him that he would cover up to 25 galleons for his expenses for food and shelter while he was away on top of the rates for international flooing. It wasn’t an extravagant amount, but if he was thrifty with where he chose to eat and sleep, it would be plenty. He’d probably be eating and sleeping better on that much than he had been the last couple of months, sadly.

The werewolf, whose name was Cooper, according to his signature on the contract, didn’t linger once he had a job to do.

With two weeks to the full moon, Harry didn’t anticipate any delays.

Alone once more, Harry filed the signed contract, then finished drawing up the new one. That done, he found the book containing the werewolf potion he’d need. His memory was such that he knew he hadn’t forgotten anything important, but he would read over the entire entry and find the journal entry he’d written regarding it way back the first time he’d come across it. Both would ensure that he was prepared to make it as effective as he could manage.

Harry may not be the most moral man around, but he did have his own code of a sort. He was a man of his word, for one. For another, he’d never harm anyone without cause, though his definition of “cause” could be somewhat loose at times. He didn’t consider it his responsibility to stick his neck out for anyone, but when he decided that he was going to help someone, he put his all into it until such a time as he’d carried through or the individual had lost his regard, which usually only happened if they acted to betray him.

He was loyal enough he’d spent one of his three times attending Hogwarts in Hufflepuff House. He took loyalty to a fault, in fact. He was loyal to those that he believed had earned it. And he was just as loyal to his grudge should someone wrong him.

Trust was something that he didn’t do in general, hence the stack of magically binding contracts he kept on hand, but that didn’t mean that one could not earn his regard through dealing with him fairly. He just preferred some insurance against betrayal.

That was a lesson he’d learned in his very first life.

This life wasn’t shaping up to be too bad, despite that ridiculous Boy-Who-Lived nonsense. His business was starting to take off and would soon keep him busy. He’d gained a freelance employee who’d likely be available for regular work, which would help Harry out significantly. He’d yet to develop any longterm goals for this life, but he had time. He planned to make this one a long life since that didn’t work out so well last time. He’d get started on strengthening his physical body to make himself more durable to injury and resistant to illness soon. Once he had a little higher income.

With some assurance that he wouldn’t die so easily, he’d have plenty of time to figure out exactly what he wanted to do, whether the reclusive scholar or the hot-shot inventor or the brilliant philanthropist or the enterprising entrepreneur. Politics and conquest had long since come to bore him. It wasn’t impossible that it may again strike his fancy someday, but it wouldn’t be soon, he didn’t think.

For now, he was only seven. He had nothing but time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The next chapter will feature Remus!


	3. Chapter 3

**1988**

Remus had discounted the rumors when he’d first heard them. That someone had some form of cure of lycanthropy. He’d heard it enough times before. There were always back alley hacks willing to bilk already destitute creatures for their last knut in exchange for a watered-down cheering draught.

Problem was, the rumors didn’t die down when people started to wise up. In fact, it had been the opposite. News was spreading. There was talk amongst the packs of sending a few of their members to check into it.

Which was why Remus was winding his way down the filthy back allies of London’s magical district in search of this so-called miracle worker. He really wasn’t prepared to believe it, but he couldn’t not check.

The business was run out of someone’s flat and from what he’d heard, the proprietor was rather… young. He’d heard that it was a kid, but no one seemed to believe that he was _actually_ a kid.

Remus found the place easy enough. There was a red and black sign in the window that read simply, _Remedies_. He paused a moment before the door, then chided himself for having any expectations at all, and knocked.

There were sounds of movement inside and a moment later, the door was pulled open.

Remus was instantly hit with a scent that nearly put him on his arse.

 _Harry_ , Mooney all but howled and Remus had to brace himself against the door frame as his blood pounded in his veins and everything in him demanded _protect, protect, protect_.

His cub. Merlin, his cub.

By the time he was able to focus beyond his shock and Mooney’s reaction, the boy — Harry, Merlin, it was Harry — had stepped back from the door.

“Come in,” he said evenly, then walked backward a few steps before turning and disappearing around the open door.

Remus was moving before making a conscious decision to do so. He rushed forward, needing to keep Harry in his sight. He maintained enough presence of mind to close the door behind him as he found Harry sitting down in one of three chairs situated in the corner of the room near the front wall of the flat.

The boy had grown so much, but he still looked far too small, his frame too frail for a healthy child. His hair was long and tied back. His green eyes were brown, but Remus didn’t doubt for a second that his nose had been right in identifying Harry. Despite the brown eyes and lack of scar on his forehead, the resemblance to James and Lily was unmistakable. Harry must have colored his eyes and covered his scar for the sake of anonymity.

Which… Merlin, Harry — not-quite-eight-year-old Harry — was living on Knockturn Alley. “I thought you were with Petunia,” he heard himself say. “Albus said you were with Petunia.”

Harry lifted a single eyebrow in response to Remus’ statement. “Hello, Remus. It’s nice to see you as well. Rather surprised to find you care after your absence these last six years. Rather strange that for all of Mum and Dad’s dear friends, I’ve not seen a single one of you since the night they died.”

Remus realized his mouth was open and closed it, wetting his lips uneasily. Harry sounded very upset. Indeed, he was glaring at Remus rather impressively for a seven-year-old. “I wanted to see you, Harry, but I couldn’t. Albus, he put wards around your home to protect you. I couldn’t get through them.”

“You could have found a way around that if you’d really wished to,” Harry sneered dismissively. “You could have waited until I left the property. It’s not that complicated.”

“I was afraid I’d lead someone to you,” Remus almost whispered. Harry seemed to be carrying a lot of anger for his seeming abandonment.

Harry shook his head in disgust. “The alleged wards only protected against harm from dark wizards and creatures, I’m guessing. I can tell you with certainty that they did nothing to protect me from the monsters entrusted with my care.”

Remus reeled back as though struck a physical blow at the implication in that statement. “Harry, you don’t… you mean…”

Harry sighed and looked away. “Yes,” he said after a moment, a little of the anger having leaked from his tone. He turned back to look at Remus with eyes far too old for him. “They despised me. They feared me. They made sure I knew every single day that I was a burden and that I had best be grateful to them for their generosity in feeding me scraps, working me like a slave, and beating me when their spoiled brat of a son saw fit to accuse me of trying to hurt him. This last summer, they apparently decided they were done being generous. Vernon chucked me out of a moving car in London. I’ve been on my own ever since.”

Remus realized his entire body was trembling and he could feel Mooney trying to claw his way out with the sole intention of tracking down and tearing the Dursleys limb from limb.

Worst part was, Remus didn’t honestly find the idea objectionable.

But not while he was in a room with Harry. Not when he’d have to run through London in search of them. He might hurt Harry and even if he didn’t, the Aurors would likely have him put down long before he could find those miserable excuses for human beings.

With that in mind, he closed his eyes and took deep breaths, slowly forcing Mooney down until he no longer felt like he was a heartbeat away from changing against the moon. When he felt he could handle it, he opened his eyes again and looked at Harry’s too frail frame.

They’d hurt his cub and he didn’t think he could let that go if he wanted to — which he didn’t — but that didn’t matter right now. What mattered now was helping Harry. Protecting Harry. That plan, too, he and Mooney could agree on.

“I’m sorry I wasn’t there,” he rasped out.

With a sigh, Harry tapped a finger against the empty pitcher situated on the table between them and it filled with water in what must have been a built-in function. He then gestured toward it and Remus gratefully filled one of the three goblets situated next to it. He drank the full glass before returning it to the table and focusing on Harry fully once more.

“Albus told me it would be safer for you if I stayed away. He warned me that everyone knew I’d been close to your family. That they’d be watching me. He…” his breath caught in his throat and he swallowed hard before adding. “He said that he had people watching over you. That you were safe. Happy.”

“He lied,” Harry said succinctly.

“Yes,” Remus growled. “Yes, I realize that now.” He took a moment to consider the reality of that. Albus had lied to him. Whether he had people watching Harry or not, the boy clearly had never been happy or safe. Then something else that Harry had said registered and he frowned at the child. “Did you say you’ve been on your own?” He glanced over his shoulder at where the red and white sign was hanging in the window. He couldn’t read it from here, but he knew what it said. “You’re the one,” he realized, rather belatedly, but under the circumstances… “You’re the one everyone has been talking about. You have a cure for lycanthropy.”

Harry pursed his lips a bit. “It’s not actually a cure for lycanthropy. It’s more of an improvement. But yes, that’s me.”

Remus had no idea what to do with the bit about lycanthropy, so he ignored it for the moment. “But how?” he asked, frankly bewildered. “Lily always said you were a genius. That your development was really advanced, but…” he shook his head.

With a sigh, Harry stood and moved toward the back of the room. He sorted through a pile of parchments before returning with one, which he offered to Remus.

Confused beyond belief, Remus accepted it and scanned the writing. “A secrecy contract,” he said aloud, then looked up at Harry for an explanation.

“I would like you to sign it before you leave,” said Harry. “I don’t wish word of my residence here to spread. Also, if you’d like the answers to any of the questions you’re currently harboring, you’ll have to sign. I’m not particularly opposed to your knowing, but I am most certainly opposed to the information reaching others. Go ahead and read it over. I’ll wait.”

Remus blinked a few times. Genius or not, there was no way that Harry was a normal seven-year-old. There had to be more at work here and Remus had to know what it was. There was no way in hell he wasn’t signing the contract, but he wasn’t such a fool as to sign without even bothering to read. While he set to reading over the contract, Harry disappeared into the back room for a few seconds, then returned with a book to read while he waited.

It was a thick, aged book. Not the sort of thing one would expect even the smartest seven-year-old to read of their own volition.

After a brief, confused frown, Remus went back to the contract the boy wanted him to sign. It was pretty straight-forward. Remus would not be able to impart the details of their conversation to anyone for any reason, willing or unwilling, without Harry’s direct and specific permission. It covered everything discussed in Harry’s flat today until one or both of them left the premises.

He took a few minutes, after reading it, to inspect the runes inscribed along the outside edge. He wasn’t a runes master by any stretch, but he had a NEWT in the subject, so he was able to determine that the contract would employ his own magic to hold him to the contract. Any attempt to circumvent it would result in pain relative to the severity of his attempt. If he did manage to divulge the information without permission, Harry would immediately be alerted and… There was something else. Some consequence for Remus that the magic would convey, but he didn’t know the meaning of the runes that would tell him what that consequence was.

Not that he’d ever find out. He’d sooner die than betray his cub.

Satisfied, he signed the contract.

Harry took it from him immediately and smeared a bit of his own blood in one corner, causing some of the runes to glow briefly. Remus suspected that was the connection Harry would use to know how Remus had betrayed him and maybe even to whom should that come to pass.

Then Harry stuck his pricked thumb in his mouth and carried the contract back to the counter where he’d found it.

“This is not my first life,” Harry explained as he returned to his chair. “That is how I am so mature. I was, in fact, born with the memories of past lives. My body, obviously, has had to mature naturally. My magic as well. Despite those handicaps, I have a great deal of knowledge at my disposal and no impediment to brewing most potions or conducting a great many rituals, which is how I do what I do.”

He paused then and Remus was grateful because he didn’t think he could absorb any more without a minute to get his head around what he’d already learned.

Harry had memories from a previous life. No, previous _lives_. That was why he’d always been so intelligent, so quiet. It was why he was so mature now. Why he was able to live on his own and run a business performing minor miracles.

He remembered Harry as a baby. It was difficult to credit the tiny little boy he’d bonded with as having had the mind of an adult all along. He’d obviously been pretending to be a child back then. He’d been advanced, but he hadn’t started speaking full sentences or anything.

“How… many lives have you lived?” Remus managed to inquire.

“Many,” Harry said dismissively. “In my first life, I created a ritual that would keep my soul within the realm of the living, thereby retaining my memories from life to life. Each time I die, I wake again nine months later, at the moment of my birth. I have never crossed into the afterlife. At least, not in my memory.”

Again he paused and allowed Remus to formulate his next question. “So you never get to see your loved ones again after they die?” he asked, not sure how to feel about that. He’d never be reunited with his parents. Then again, he must have had many parents if he’d had many lives.

“Not without performing a necromantic ritual to temporarily recall their souls, no.” Harry didn’t seem bothered by that, but perhaps he’d gotten used to it.

“Can you ever undo it? If you decide you’re done?” Remus wondered.

Harry looked thoughtful, “I suppose I could,” he admitted. “I can’t imagine desiring that. Perhaps one day in the distant future, but I’m pretty content the way I am.”

Remus nodded to himself. He probably shouldn’t be surprised. “So James and Lily… They were just two more in a long line of parents for you, I suppose.” The idea saddened him. That maybe Harry hadn’t valued them as much as they’d valued him.

“I didn’t agree with a lot of their philosophy and ideals, but that’s hardly surprising given they were barely more than children and I’ve lived many lives,” Harry shrugged carelessly. His eyes sharpened a bit and he added, “I did care for them, Remus. You may not be aware, but truly unconditional love is not something bestowed upon every child. Or even most. From the day I was born until the day they died, I cherished the love they had for me. It was… difficult for me, when they were killed.”

“You remember everything,” Remus realized. “You remember that night.”

“I do,” Harry agreed soberly.

“How did he die?” Remus asked eagerly. He’d wondered for so long.

“I don’t know why,” Harry sighed, “but Voldemort sought to give Lily the chance to live. He told her to stand aside and she didn’t need to die. Three times, Lily begged him to kill her instead. And then Voldemort said, ‘Very well,’ and he cast the Killing Curse on her. Lily’s fervent desire to die in my place and Voldemort’s honest intent to let her live combined with the words they spoke created a magical contract between them. It’s ancient magic. The kind used before the average magical could necessarily read and write, much less know how to draw up a contract. When Voldemort turned his wand on me with intent to kill, the magic would have punished him with severe pain, but he didn’t seem to notice. He’d mutilated himself so badly through misuse of his magic that I don’t think he even felt the warning. When he cast the curse, it never even touched me. The magic left his wand and immediately turned back on him. It literally tore him apart.

“He must have some kind of failsafe to keep him in the living realm as well because his soul did not move on. Instead, he tore his way through the veil and attacked me before fleeing the house. That is how I got my scar. It is where the shade passed into my body. I was never hit with a Killing Curse, hence the continued life of this body. All of that Boy-Who-Lived nonsense is the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever heard.”

Remus swallowed and poured himself another glass of water. He drank it slowly while he turned this information around in his mind. It actually made a lot more sense than any of the other theories he’d heard or considered, including Albus’ insistence that Lily’s love had been so strong as to somehow strike from beyond the veil. Yes, Lily loved Harry fiercely, but that didn’t make any sense. If that was possible, it would be a lot more common within families that were killed. Between Grindelwald and Voldemort, too many families had been slaughtered and none had managed such a feat as that.

But the rest of what Harry had said… “So he is going to come back.”

“More than likely,” Harry agreed. “Whether it will be within a year or not for a hundred, I couldn’t begin to speculate. Considering that he hasn’t come back yet, I’d say it’s likely that whatever magic he is using either wasn’t very effective or requires someone with a body to assist. Someone that he clearly does not have.”

It was jarring just how casually Harry talked about Voldemort’s continued existence. As though immortality was a fairly mundane concept and Voldemort not a great concern for his future. Though probably the former would seem true enough to someone who’d actually successfully managed a form of immortality. And perhaps Voldemort didn’t seem so scary to someone who’d died and come back “many” times already.

It was still damn uncomfortable to be talking to a seven-year-old boy like an adult, but he supposed he’d have to get used to that.

“Albus was the one that started the Boy-Who-Lived thing,” he admitted. “Well, I guess the Prophet coined the name, but he was the one who gave an interview saying that you’d survived a Killing Curse.”

“Albus Dumbledore…” Harry muttered thoughtfully. “From what you’ve said, he was the one who was supposedly keeping an eye on me and telling you that I was fine. He also put wards around the house to protect me from outside dangers that may or may not have ever been coming for me, while totally ignoring the danger within the house. And he spread the unsubstantiated claim that I’d survived the unsurvivable. He was the leader of the vigilante group Mum and Dad were a part of, but does he have any legal hold over me?”

Remus was startled by the question, because… “No. No, he doesn’t. The end of the war was a crazy time. Albus has always been a calm, guiding influence for the wizarding world. He’s powerful and intelligent and kind. He always has everyone’s best interests in mind, so everyone looks to him in times of trouble. When he said you would be safest with Petunia, no one doubted him. When he said you were safe and happy growing up… no one doubted him.”

Harry raised a supremely unimpressed eyebrow. “I guarantee you, he did not have my best interests in mind when he left me with the Dursleys. Merlin, politics are tedious. I’ve half a mind to move back to Brazil and forget the last seven years ever happened.”

Remus physically flinched at the idea. “You won’t, will you?” If he did, Remus would follow him. Ancient reincarnated bloke or not, he was still Harry. Still Lily and James’ son. Still Mooney’s cub.

“Eh…” Harry shrugged. “I’m not planning to at the moment, but I won’t rule it out for the future. I’ll see how things go.”

“Will you… Can you tell me if you decide to leave?” Remus asked, somewhat desperately.

Harry considered him for a long moment, eyeing him like he was trying to figure him out. Finally, he gave a dip of his head. “I will.”

Remus breathed a sigh of relief.

Harry leaned forward and poured himself a glass of water, sitting back to sip at it as the silence stretched.

Eventually, Remus drifted out of his wandering thoughts enough to inquire, “What did you mean before? About the lycanthropy cure?”

Harry’s brow rose, “Right. Well, I do know of a cure for lycanthropy, though it only works before the first transformation. Afterward, you are permanently changed.”

“But you said you had… What, an improvement?” Remus pressed.

Harry nodded, “Well, I didn’t create it. It was invented a long time ago by a revolutionary Greek mind healer. It’s a potion that will force your human self and your wolf self to merge. It will result in stronger instincts while you’re human, stronger senses and physical strength, though a quicker temper. And all month long rather than waxing and waning with the moon phases. It will also make the change painless and make you capable of completing the change at will rather than just at the full moon. You will still have to change during the moon and you will be more ruled by your instincts then, but you will retain your conscious mind and your memories of the time. You will feel healthier in general and very little drain after a change except being hungry for raw meat. It’s not an overly expensive or difficult potion to brew. I charge ten galleons, half for ingredients and half for my time.”

“Most werewolves couldn’t afford ten galleons,” Remus said almost absently as he considered all Harry had said.

The “improvement” sounded both better and worse than everyday life as it was. The lack of pain sounded wonderful, as did feeling healthier, but it wasn’t something that he really thought would be worth the heightened instincts and shorter temper. Merlin, his temper was so short as it was that he barely restrained himself from attacking people sometimes.

“Yes, well I often let them work it off in trade when I can. Running errands for me that are difficult given my stature, handling tedious jobs like brewing bases or copying out contracts, sometimes something as simple as donating blood, saliva, or even fur or claws for my potions cupboard, though I do insist on a magical contract with that last one. Giving up pieces of yourself should not be done lightly and my contract gives them the peace of mind to know it will not be used against them or their family.”

“That’s really decent of you,” Remus acknowledged.

“I’m really a rather decent sort of guy,” Harry deadpanned.

Remus winced a little, “I didn’t mean to imply anything. I just… There’s not many people out there willing to help werewolves.”

Harry scoffed spitefully, “Yes, people tend to fear those more powerful than themselves and they hate what they fear.”

“More powerful?” Remus blurted, taken aback by the suggestion.

Harry lifted that eyebrow again, this time questioning Remus’ intelligence with it. “Werewolves are just as intelligent and magically powerful after their transformation as before. They’re also stronger and have vastly heightened senses. Even with the handicap of changing against your will once a month, you are the superior species.”

Remus could only stare in a kind of wonder at that pronouncement. He’d never in his life heard anyone call werewolves superior to humans. Well, except Greyback, secondhand, but he wasn’t in the practice of giving credence to the ranting of murderous madmen.

He blinked when he saw Harry roll his eyes rather expressively. “I take it then that you haven’t gotten over your internalized prejudice. I found it rather distasteful while Mum and Dad were alive and that opinion hasn’t changed.”

“It’s not prejudice to fear what I’m capable of and to hate that which has made my life so difficult.”

Harry took a breath and held it for a moment before letting it out and Remus got the impression the boy was silently counting to ten. “Remus…” he started in a tone of patience, then just shook his head, “You’re ridiculous. By your logic, I should fear my own potential and hate myself for what the Dursleys did to make my life miserable.”

Remus blanched at the comparison.

“It’s the same,” Harry said firmly before Remus could interject. “Being a werewolf hasn’t made your life difficult. Being hated by others for being a werewolf is what’s made your life difficult. Fearing your potential is just stupid. You are an intelligent sapient being. You decide your actions. The wolf is a part of you, not the monster under your bed. Take the damn potion, learn how to control your anger issues, and get over yourself.”

Remus could only stare, barely daring to breathe. No one had ever said anything like that to him before and coming from Harry, he couldn’t even be properly angry about it.

After a moment, Harry sighed again. “That was probably more judgmental than necessary. I apologize.” He thought for a few seconds, then continued, “In my many lifetimes, I have seen a great deal of prejudice. I have seen it destroy people, but it is never so harmful as when one feels it toward oneself. I suspect yours started with your parents. I believe you were turned as a child, yes?”

Remus nodded numbly.

“They probably told you about how horrible it was that you were a werewolf and you had no reason to doubt them, particularly when the pain _was_ horrible. You never learned to control your instincts because you were so busy fearing them, so of course, those seemed horrible as well.

“You are no more a monster than anyone else, Remus. If you ever want your life to improve, that is the first step. Accept yourself for who you are, not who you are incapable of being.”

Several minutes passed in silence as Remus absorbed that. Eventually, Harry stood. “I believe I’ve given you enough to think about for one day. There is a potion I need to brew for a client, so we will have to continue our conversation another time.”

Remus let himself be ushered out, still dazed and trying to wrap his mind around everything that had happened since he’d knocked on that door.

It felt like a lifetime had passed while he was inside, but the daylight suggested it had been only an hour or so.

Swallowing thickly, Remus glanced once more at the sign in the window, then started making his way out of the alley. Now that Harry was no longer with the Dursleys, the wards keeping him out should be gone. Even if they weren’t Remus was no longer afraid of drawing attention to them by stalking them. Despite what he knew Mooney would like to do, Remus didn’t plan to kill them.

But a Marauder had many non-lethal ways of making someone’s life miserable. They would pay for hurting his cub.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm thinking to skip a year before the next chapter, so it'll be just before or just after Harry turns 9.


	4. Chapter 4

**1989**

Harry looked up from the tome he was perusing when a knock sounded on his door. Hopping down from his perch on the countertop — hey, there were benefits to being a small, flexible child and he was going to enjoy them while they lasted — and moved to the door.

He pulled it open and blinked a bit in surprise when he laid eyes on a man that was most definitely not like the clients he usually got. The man was tall, with a regal bearing and aristocratic features, dressed in a small fortune of acromantula silk and gold fastenings. His pale blond hair was long and straight, hung over his shoulders. One of his hands lightly gripped his walking stick just below the hissing snakehead. Cool silver eyes regarded Harry neutrally for a moment before Harry stepped back and invited the man inside.

The man followed him in, swinging the door shut behind him. He glanced around with little interest before focusing on Harry critically once again. “You are the… proprietor of this… establishment?” he inquired, his pauses seeming more for the sake of censoring himself than anything.

“I am,” Harry said with a bland smile. “What can I do for you, sir?”

The man hesitated a moment more, then relented, “I have heard it said that you have many remedies for things other say are hopeless.”

“I do,” Harry agreed.

“What about dragon pox?” the man asked, his voice low, tense.

Harry tipped his head thoughtfully. He’d not been asked for that one yet. “I don’t have a cure,” Harry admitted, “but I do have some tricks that can help someone to survive it, and an option or two if those fail. I’d need to examine the patient to see which options are feasible for the specific case.”

The man’s gloved hand tightened around his walking stick, the leather creaking in the silence of the room. He hesitated only a moment before nodding. “Will you be able to accompany me now?”

“I can,” Harry confirmed. “Let me fetch my bag.” He stepped into the back room, which was presently functioning as bedroom, kitchen, brewing station, and collected his bag. He’d commissioned it specially at the luggage shop. It contained his entire supply of brewed potions, a small library of his most commonly referenced books, and a collection of food, clothes, and survival supplies in case of a “rainy day”. It looked rather like a black leather messenger bag, which he draped across his body on his way back to the main room. He then flipped the sign in the window to indicate he was closed for business, then regarded the obviously wealthy man again. “Floo?” he suggested with a wave toward the fireplace in the wall opposite his little seating area.

The man nodded and moved toward the fireplace, helping himself to a pinch of floo powder from the pot stationed on the side table next to the hearth. Most people kept it on the mantle, but Harry didn’t want to climb a step ladder every time he needed it.

Lucius tossed the powder into the fire, called out, “Malfoy Manor,” and vanished in a gout of flame.

Harry took a moment to fondly remember a time before floo travel had been invented. It was a messy, dizzying method of transport. Still, it was much more convenient than apparating or portkeys for those without enough or well developed enough magic to manage them. And it was a lot quicker than flying, which had been the height of advancement in magical transportation in his youth. Sadly, the advent of modern instantaneous travel had turned flight into nothing more than an amusement. Once upon a time, he’d gotten around in a great flying ship, but no one built anything like that any longer. Between faster options and their need to hide from the muggles, it was no longer desirable.

With a sigh for his reminiscing, Harry gathered his walking stick focus from its place against the wall, took a bit of the powder, and followed the man to Malfoy Manor.

He stepped out into a beautifully appointed reception room, not too surprising given the floo address. The man was waiting rather impatiently. As soon as Harry had dusted himself off, the man gave a curt, “Follow me,” and he was striding off quickly enough that Harry had a hard time keeping up. He refused to jog, even if his young body wouldn’t really protest the exertion. He had some dignity to maintain in the presence of a client.

The man seemed to notice the problem after a moment and deliberately slowed his stride, though his impatience visibly returned in response.

Harry supposed it was likely a loved one afflicted by the disease. There was a vaccine that had come out fairly recently, but it only worked on children under ten, before their magic was beginning to properly settle, and it was new enough that the man before him _may_ be young enough to have had it, but anyone much older definitely hadn’t. Harry had had it just after his first birthday, which was the best time to get it.

Eventually, after climbing two stories and proceeding to the end of a long corridor, the man led them into a bedroom every bit as impressive as the rest of the house might suggest. With towering ceilings and enough wealth on display just in the decorative items in the room to feed all the residents of Knockturn Alley for a month.

Not that Harry had anything in particular against ostentatious wealth. He’d grown a bit bored with it himself, but to each their own.

He didn’t spend much time looking around because the man he’d come here to see was very obviously on the bed. He was probably this man’s father going by the long, pale blond hair and aristocratic features on a face about a generation older. The man was clearly afflicted with dragon pox in an advanced stage. His visible face and hands were covered in bleeding sores, his face clammy with fever and deathly pale.

Silvery eyes cracked open when the younger man bent to speak quietly to him.

“Foolish boy,” the elder man breathed weakly, “Can’t you let a man die in peace?”

“Father, I’ve brought someone that can help,” the younger insisted.

The older man laughed weakly, “Too late for that, Lucius,” but his eyes were soft when he looked at his son.

Harry stepped closer to the bed, noting the lazy throbbing of magic pulsing off the man. He rather suspected he may be correct about it being too late to save him. Dragon pox was a horrible disease. It caused one’s magic to attack the body housing it, which was the cause of the weeping sores and fevers. The more powerful one’s magic, the more deadly the affliction. This man was undoubtedly powerful, but the thrum of his magic had become weak. His body was failing under the onslaught, which was weakening the magic’s assault.

Dragon pox was only a few hundred years old, really, so Harry didn’t have all that much experience with it apart from dying from it once. He’d never even heard of it until he’d heard the healer diagnose him. He’d died at four years old in that life, and he knew exactly how excruciatingly painful it was.

The younger man, Lucius, turned back to Harry with quiet desperation in his eyes. “Can you help him?” he asked sharply.

“Let me check,” Harry replied softly. Lifting his focus, he concentrated on channeling his magic. It was getting easier in the almost two years since he’d first acquired the focus from his vault. Using his magic as he did every day was helping it to settle it more quickly, but it was still slow going. He probably had the control of an eleven-year-old at the moment, but no matter how much he used it, it would not fully settle until his body hit about seventeen.

Drawing a roll of parchment from his bag, Harry placed it at the foot of the bed, then whispered the spell, the vocalized words providing a further aid to his casting. This was not an overly complicated spell. One of the simplest diagnostic charms to assess health in magical humans, in fact. Once the spell was cast, Harry tapped the tip of his focus against the parchment and it began to fill with words.

Harry cradled his walking stick in the crook of his arm, then unfurled the parchment and read his way through it.

It confirmed his fears. With a sigh, he addressed Lucius, “Would you like to speak here or elsewhere.”

Lucius hesitated, but the elder man spoke up quickly, “Here, Lucius. I’m dying, not turning into a woman.”

Lucius took a breath, then nodded at Harry.

“His body is too far gone to save.”

Lucius' shoulders fell. It was clearly what he was both expecting and dreading.

“There are still a couple of options,” Harry added. “His magic has torn up his body to the point that it will never channel magic properly again, even if I managed to heal it. Now, your best option is going to be to trap his soul in a phylactery before he dies. It’s possible to do it as he dies, but the chance of failure is much higher that way. If you wait until he’s gone, his soul will pass beyond our reach and he will be lost forever.

“Once his soul is contained, we can use his body as part of a potion/ritual combination to grow him an entirely new body. It will take a couple of weeks to mature it to adulthood, maybe six weeks to reach an age akin to what he is now. The age you choose is entirely up to you, so long as it’s at least eighteen. His soul will need a mature body to enter. When the body is prepared, another ritual will transfer his soul into it and bring it to life. It will take him a couple of days to settle into the new body before he regains consciousness and at least a few months of dedicated training to regain proper control of his magic, but once that’s done, he will be in perfect health.”

“Necromancy,” Lucius noted grimly.

“Yes,” Harry admitted with a little shrug. It had always been one of the more controversial branches of magic, though there had been, historically, a few societies that were built around its use and venerated it. Personally, Harry had always considered it just as viable a tool as any other.

“You said,” the elder man breathed with difficulty, “it was one option.”

“Yes,” Harry nodded. “Another option would be to use an already existing body to transfer into. That would save the time of growing the new body completely, though it would have to be a muggle body or your magic would never work right. A lack of magical pathways already in place is imperative. It would, however, take you considerably longer to gain proper control of your magic and there’s no guarantee you’d ever settle just right in the body that had already housed another soul, which could leave you with a permanent sense of unease not easily defined. There’s also the issue that I don’t like to take a life without a good reason, so unless you found a muggle that deserved to die for whatever reason and were able to convince me, I won’t assist you with that.

“The next best option would be to grow a homunculus to transfer your soul into. Like the first option, this one would take time. Probably a month or two. The downside of this one would be that a homunculus, no matter how good a mimic, is not actually a living body, but a construct. It’s difficult to say how long it would take to settle your magic, though there are ways of minimizing the time by tailoring it to suit you. You would no longer be able to eat. You would not void waste. You would not sleep and you would not age. You would also be sterile. Whether you would ever have the strength and control of your magic that you had before your sickness, I could not guarantee.

“Another option would be vampirism. I know a vampire or two who would turn him today for the right price. Those are the only options that I would recommend.

“I’m guessing that you’re aware that he doesn’t have much more than a week left, and there is always the possibility that his body will fail sooner. It will take me about a day to prepare a phylactery if you wish to choose that route. You don’t need to decide immediately, but it does need to be soon.”

“Have you done this before?” Lucius probed, his eyes hard and suspicious.

“Quite a number of times, actually,” Harry nodded. “It’s a relatively simple procedure, honestly, but not one that many have the understanding to complete. I’ve used it on friends and clients alike.”

“What are some of the worst things that could go wrong?” Lucius pressed.

Harry blew out a sigh and considered. “Most of the worst things associated with changing bodies is negated if he uses a newly grown version of his own body because it will be completely compatible with his soul and magic, just as the original was. Also, as it’s never before housed a soul or magic, he will have no problem settling in.

“The largest possible problems I could think of would be not catching his soul in the phylactery, which is highly unlikely if it’s done before his death. The only reason that would happen would be if his soul really did not want to be caught, which I don’t foresee happening if he is conscious and agrees to the procedure before. There’s also the vague possibility of the growth of his new body going wrong due to a bad ingredient or a brewing accident, but as I said, I’ve done this often enough that I know what I’m doing. I’ve never had a problem aside from once the soul escaped but that attempt was with an unwilling soul, so…”

“Do it,” the dying man breathed.

“Father…” Lucius seemed worried.

“Worst case, I die, son,” he pointed out.

Lucius took a fortifying breath, then nodded. “Very well. Perhaps we should let my father rest and see about working out the details of your fee and what you’ll need from me.”

Harry gave a nod and gestured toward the door, inviting the man to lead the way.

Lucius did so, though it wasn’t far before they arrived at an office, as well-appointed as everything else. Lucius sat behind the desk and invited Harry to sit in front of it. Harry declined a beverage because he didn’t expect this would take that long.

“Well, then. Perhaps we should discuss your fee first,” Lucius began.

Harry nodded graciously. “Crafting the phylactery will require a pound of diamond dust, five drops of phoenix tears, and a chunk of pure amethyst the size of my fist among other ingredients. We’ll say an even five thousand galleons for that. The ritual/potion to grow your father a new body will require large quantities of muggle blood and daily attention. For that, it’ll cost you a thousand galleons, plus a thousand for each week it takes depending on how far you want to age the body. Actually moving his soul into the new body will require a ritual that will take at least an entire day to prepare and hours to actually work. That’ll cost you another three thousand.” Granted, he was scaling his fee to the Malfoy’s obvious wealth, but that was just good business sense. The phylactery really would run almost four thousand galleons by itself. Not much he could do about that.

Lucius grimaced and Harry added, “I could do the phylactery without the diamond dust which would cut three thousand galleons off the price, but it will make his time within it much more difficult on your father and increase his recovery time. The diamond dust acts as an outer barrier for the phylactery to help keep the soul contained within and all other energies out.”

“No, I will not be asking you to cut any corners on account of the price. It is, I suppose, the price of cheating death,” he smiled dryly.

Harry returned the smile, “Quite.”

“Very well. I will, you understand, need to have a magical contract drawn up and signed before I give you any money.”

“As you wish,” Harry agreed easily. It wasn’t the life of his loved one hanging in the balance if this took too long. “I can start acquiring the ingredients while you do that. Will the contract be ready tomorrow or sooner?”

“It should take only a few hours,” Lucius assured. “I can bring it by your residence when it is ready.”

“That will be fine. As for what I will need from you, I will require a space in which to complete the ritual. If you have a ritual room, that would serve best.”

“I do,” Lucius nodded.

“Once the phylactery is ready, I will prepare the ritual room. Then we will move your father into it to complete the ritual which will move his soul into the phylactery. The ritual room will then need to be reset for the next step, creating the new body. His weakened body will die very quickly once his soul is removed. His body will then be cleaned and purified before it is added as the key ingredient of the potion. Now, it is possible to use less than his entire body in order to keep some of it if a second attempt is needed, but the potion will take about twice as long to mature. I am pretty confident that it won’t be needed, but if, for any reason, we are unable to create another body for him, we do still have options to use another body or create a homunculus. It won’t mean that he’s lost.”

Lucius nodded gravely, “I will discuss it with my father.”

Harry gave a short nod. “Fair enough. The potion will take a few hours to begin. Then I will complete a brief ritual with the potion as the focus of it. The ritual will be repeated once every twenty-four hours and ingredients added to the potion until you wish to stop aging the body. A final ritual will complete the process. The body will then be cleaned and purified. Technically, it should already be pure, but I prefer not to take any chances.

“At that point, I can begin preparing for the final ritual. I will want a full night of sleep before I start the preparation and a full night of sleep after the preparations before the actual casting. It is a grueling process that will leave me heavily fatigued.

“Included in the contract, I will need general secrecy binding that goes both ways regarding what we’re doing. I will also need to spend the night here at least occasionally when I am too exhausted to return home. I will need a provision for this in the contract and a guarantee of my safety in your home throughout the process. You may include a reciprocal assurance that I will not seek to harm your home or anyone within it if you wish. If there is anyone else you want involved in any part of this process, the individual will need to be included in the contract. Oh, and your father, of course.”

“That is acceptable,” Lucius agreed easily.

“Wonderful. Do you have any questions about anything?” Harry prompted.

“Yes, actually,” Lucius leaned forward a bit in his chair, “Is it possible to add an inoculation against dragon pox to his new body before it ages too much?”

Harry leaned back, brow furrowing thoughtfully. It wasn’t something he’d ever tried to do before, considering how new the vaccine was. He ran a few ideas through his head, then nodded. “Yes. I do believe that I can. It might add a few days to the time it takes to grow the body, though.”

“That is acceptable to ensure we don’t find ourselves in this situation again,” Lucius assured. He took a breath, held it a few seconds, then let it out and spoke briskly. “While my attorneys work on the contract, I will discuss this with my father.”

Harry floo’d out through the office fireplace after proper parting pleasantries had been observed. Harry couldn’t help but laugh a little to himself when he was back in his own home. Sweet mother magic, rich people were great. The profit on this job was going to cover living expenses and fund some of his personal rituals for the next year or so.

With a bounce in his step, he made his way toward Gringotts. Once he picked up the funds, he’d track down one of his always-eager freelancers to run and pick up what he needed for the phylactery. It wouldn’t be easy to find all of that locally in the time frame he was working with, but it wouldn’t be hard to come by in some of the larger magical marketplaces.

Most of his employees were werewolves at the moment. They had a hard time finding work, so the ones that had worked to earn their potion tended to be very willing to work for him again. He paid well and treated them like normal people, which was, sadly enough, to earn the loyalty of most of them.

Well, he knew by now that he couldn’t single-handedly change the world, particularly not people’s minds, but he could damn well profit from their stupidity.

* * *

*** * * * ***

* * *

Remus munched happily on the sandwich he’d picked up from a nearby deli, his feet swaying idly where they dangled over the low garden wall he was sitting on. His attention was focused on the townhouse across the street.

It had been nine months since he’d found Harry and heard about the Dursleys’ evil deeds. It hadn’t taken him too long to find them on Privet Drive. He’d spent enough time in the muggle world to know his way around. Armed with the names Petunia and Vernon Dursley, finding them hadn’t been difficult.

Of course, the little family didn’t live on Privet Drive anymore. They were currently renting the lower level of this little townhouse.

Terrible luck had been plaguing the family these past months. Vernon had lost his job at Grunnings when his boss had developed an irrational but powerful dislike for the man. Honestly, it hadn’t taken all that much. Vernon was not a very likable man, even when he was trying. Since then, he’d continued to quickly lose every single job that he managed to get. The spate of bad luck had forced the family to sell the home they’d yet to pay off and move into cheaper accommodations in the city where work was easier to come by.

It hadn’t been long before Petunia had been forced to find a job and she was qualified for basically nothing, meaning that she’d been working at cafes and diners and pubs. She hadn’t been able to keep any of the jobs very long due to her own distasteful personality, but the next one was easy enough to find. Remus had stalked her enough to know that she was flirting with every wealthy man that came through her place of work, clearly looking to change up Vernon for a more successful model. Again, her personality and appearance had thus far made any interference from Remus unnecessary.

Even poor Dudders had begun suffering terrible nightmares. Every time he bullied anyone, he spent the whole night suffering nightmares of starring as the victim in the very scenarios he’d acted out. For a time, the boy had increased his bullying, but he’d wised up eventually and hadn’t had any nightmares in almost a month. Good for him. Remus didn’t really want to hurt the kid. It wasn’t his fault his parents were horrible human beings teaching him crap. The kid also had developed an aversion to unhealthy foods, which had taken a few months for him to adjust to, but he was getting the hang of it now.

Remus grinned as he heard shouting start up in the house again. It hadn’t progressed to physical violence. Remus wasn’t sure if he’d intervene if it did, except maybe to try to get Dudley taken away. There was a lot of fighting though. Vernon had taken to drinking in his depression about his inability to hold down a job and Petunia got very catty when he came home from a long shift to find her husband passed out on the sofa, buried under microwave meals and snack wrappers paid for by her hard-earned wages.

Happily munching his sandwich, Remus reflected on the other bright spot in his life these days. Harry regularly had jobs for Remus that he paid bordering on ridiculous rates for. It rubbed a bit that his honorary godson — his eight-year-old honorary godson — was basically taking care of him, but it’s not like he was accepting charity. It was honest work. Mostly it involved shopping for him, locally or otherwise, which would be difficult for Harry to do at his physical age, and running other errands so that Harry could focus on brewing potions and tweaking rituals and whatever the hell else he did, the obscenely brilliant brat.

Harry also consented to spending a few hours a week just keeping Remus company. Sometimes they just sat by the fire and ate dinner. Sometimes they went out to eat or saw a play, or even went to the muggle cinema. Remus wasn’t entirely sure if Harry was doing it more for Remus’ sake or his own, but he appreciated it nonetheless.

The kid was unbelievably mature, cool and collected. He had an opinion on most topics but was always open to dissenting ideas. Remus still didn’t know how many lives he’d lived or how many years those lives encompassed, but he got the feeling that it was a lot.

He’d convinced Remus to take the potion a few months ago, and Remus had discovered a level of peace with himself that he could never remember having. He’d expected the potion to make him more of a monster, but it was the opposite. Instead of having the monster always lurking in the back of his mind, he was alone in his body now. There was no wolf and human. Just a werewolf.

Oddly, controlling his temper was easier now. He used to always struggle in terror to control the wolf before it could hurt someone. Now _he_ felt the anger as well as possessing the rationale to temper it.

Harry really was incredible. He knew James and Lily would be so proud of their kid, reincarnated memories, differing ideals and all.

His smile grew from wistful to amused when he heard something break inside the Dursleys’ flat. With a chuckle, Remus dusted off the crumbs from his sandwich and lowered himself from the wall. He had a bit of a bounce in his step as he started back toward the magical world. He didn’t think the Dursleys needed any more of his help just yet, but they would. He was far from done with them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For those of you offended by Abraxas’ comment “I’m dying, not turning into a woman”, he’s not insinuating that women are weak, just less emotionally stable, meaning one should treat a woman in such a situation with delicacy, but not a man. He was one of Tom’s friends in school and Tom only had like one marked Death Eater that was female, so I figure there’s at least a little gender discrimination going on in that organization.


	5. Chapter 5

Severus stepped out of the floo into the Malfoy receiving room, mind still reeling from the visit Lucius had paid him the night before. He knew that his old friend had been struggling to deal with his father’s illness and the healer’s report a week ago that he would not survive the affliction, but he honestly had not expected this.

He’d shown up last night with an unbelievable tale about a child necromancer and a ritual to give his father a new, healthy body. Severus had tried to reason with the man, but he’d been resolute. In fact, he’d already paid for the first part of the ritual and signed a contract. Necromancy was an incredibly obscure field of magic. The majority of the books that had ever been published on it had been destroyed by various governments. As a result, true, knowledgeable necromancers were exceedingly rare. On the other hand, pretenders with one or two necromantic tricks up their sleeves were quite common.

Severus was exceedingly doubtful that this was going to work out, but Lucius was his closest living friend so Severus had agreed to observe the rituals and the potions involved. The least he could do was give a second opinion on whether or not any of this even seemed feasible.

As expected, Severus found Lucius at his father’s bedside. Magic was likely the only thing keeping the man looking so well put together as he spent countless hours in this room.

Lucius looked up sharply at Severus’ entrance, then his shoulders sagged a little. He took a deep breath, then stood, stretching a little, and crossed the room with silent steps. “He should be here very soon,” Lucius said quietly. He glanced back at his father’s sleeping form, then turned toward the door. “I’ll let you read over the contract. He’ll want you to sign it before we begin. He’s rather strict about secrecy… Not surprising, really.”

“Where are Narcissa and Draco?” Severus inquired as he followed his friend to his office.

“They’ve gone to spend a couple of weeks in our villa in France,” Lucius replied quietly.

Severus dipped his head in understanding. No matter how desperate he was to save his father, he wouldn’t risk his wife or son. Upon entering Lucius’ office, Severus was handed a sheet of parchment. He settled into a chair in front of the desk to read through it.

It was a pretty standard secrecy contract, written up by Lucius’ solicitors. Specifically, he wasn’t allowed to speak of or in other ways convey information about the ritual in anything but the most vague terms. The rules were the same for the person conducting the ritual. He’d probably be able to call him a child necromancer, but not his name or anything more identifying than that. The terms excluded anyone present for the ritual, so at least he and Lucius would be able to discuss it between them or with Abraxas when he’d recovered.

After carefully reading through the contract, Severus brought a bit of his magic to his fingertips, just enough to activate the concealed runes along the edges of the parchment. As expected, his magic would bind him to the terms and prevent the information from being taken from him by force. There was nothing truly dangerous to it as some of the more severe contracts that could cause serious harm to anyone even attempting to circumvent the terms of the contract.

Satisfied, Severus placed the parchment on the desk in front of him and picked up the waiting quill. He signed his name quickly, then replaced the quill and sat back to consider his friend, who was doing a barely adequate job of concealing his nerves. Severus wondered how little sleep his friend must be getting to be so visibly shaken.

“What has he told you about the ritual?” Severus inquired, at least in part to distract the blond.

Lucius huffed a short breath. “Well, the first step will be to transfer my father’s soul into a phylactery, which he should have created by now.” His voice shook a little when he spoke of his father’s soul. “When he’s-” he stopped speaking abruptly and stood. “He’s here. Come.”

Lucius snatched up the secrecy contract and led the way back to the receiving room. Standing near the fireplace was a young boy who honestly didn’t even look as old as Draco. He had black hair tied back at his neck and wore plain black robes of average quality. He was leaning slightly against a walking stick that looked more like a staff in the hands of the small boy.

He turned toward them as they entered the room and Severus nearly tripped on the rug when he got a good look at him. The child bore a striking resemblance to James Potter.

Cool brown eyes regarded Severus a moment before flitting to Lucius, mobile brow rising questioningly.

“This is my good friend, Severus Snape,” Lucius introduced. “He is a potions master and has agreed to oversee the ritual for my own peace of mind.”

The boy nodded his understanding, accepting the parchment Lucius handed to him. He read it through quickly, then ran a finger down the center of the page, causing the runes to glow. At the bottom, he swiped his finger over Severus’ signature, causing that to glow as well. Finally, he nodded, seemingly satisfied, and tucked the parchment into what was clearly an expanded pocket in his robe.

“Very well. If you’ll take me to the ritual room, it will take about an hour to prepare for the first ritual.”

It was very off-putting to hear the words and cadence of an adult in the voice of a child.

Lucius seemed content to ignore that dissonance as he simply nodded and began leading the way toward the ritual room, albeit at a markedly slower pace than was his norm, which allowed the boy to keep up without jogging.

When they arrived at the ritual room, the boy looked around a moment before nodding in satisfaction. “This will suit ideally.” He reached into one of his pockets and drew out a piece of reddish chalk as he moved to the center of the room.

“I will return to my father. Send an elf when he is ready,” Lucius requested quietly.

Severus gave a nod and watched his friend leave before moving forward to observe the runes the child had begun to draw onto the floor. The boy worked quickly and surely, each rune forming precisely without any apparent need for thought. The rapidity with which he worked was similar to what one might use when writing in their native language.

The stone in the chamber was lain in concentric circles and he easily followed one such line now. When he’d completed the circle of runes, which was maybe two and a half meters in diameter, he found a different piece of chalk and began a second ring a centimeter inside of the first. That was followed by another smaller ring with another piece of chalk. When he’d completed three circles, he took a few minutes to review them. Rituals tended to go very wrong with even one malformed or smudged rune, so the care was appreciated after how quickly he’d gone through creating them.

When he was apparently satisfied, he rose and paced a few steps away, then lifted his little staff and whispered a word or two under his breath. In response, a faint gray line materialized on the floor, beginning in the exact center of the runic circle and extending to just in front of the boy’s feet.

He found a piece of plain white chalk in his robe and marked that spot, then used a similar spell to outline a circle centered on that spot. The circle was about a half meter in diameter. He traced the line with his white chalk, then placed his staff aside and crouched to begin another circle of runes.

As before, he moved quickly through the runes, pausing periodically to examine them, possibly to make sure he was spacing them properly. They would need to line up just right with the first circles, Severus suspected. These runes, he drew much smaller than the first ones so they fit around the circle just as the first, larger set had done.

After a while, the boy began humming under his breath as he worked, though the tune was not one Severus could recognize. When he finished all three rings on this circle — again in the three slightly different colored chalk — he took a few minutes to look it over as he had the first circle. His humming continued throughout.

When he seemed satisfied with that circle, he moved to the space between the two and again used his staff and the white chalk to draw straight lines between the two circles, one for each level of the runes. He examined the lines critically for several minutes before seeming satisfied, at which point, the began drawing more runes to connect the two circles. This time, the runes tapered from the larger size of the larger circle to the smaller size of the smaller circle. It was mildly impressive how smooth he managed to make the transition with relatively little effort.

Severus could only think that all of this spoke of a great deal more repetition than should have been possible given the boy’s age.

The boy carefully connected the outer circles first, moving onto the second chalk for the second circles. When he came to the outer circles in the way, he drew right over the rune already there, which according to everything Severus knew about ritual magic, was a huge mistake. The boy repeated the process for the innermost circle, this time drawing over two runes in the outer and center circle.

He did this for both sides, joining the circles together. When he was finished, he spent a few minutes examining the new work, then at least five minutes to stand back and examine the entire thing, circling around it slowly as he did so.

When he was finished, he nodded to himself and finally acknowledged Severus by meeting his eyes.

“You are Harry Potter,” Severus voiced warily before the boy could speak.

The boy’s brow rose in surprise before falling back into a more thoughtful expression. “I suppose you knew my father,” he ventured. “I’m told I bear a resemblance.”

Severus couldn’t help but sneer a little just thinking of James Potter.

“Knew him but did not like him,” the boy extrapolated with a small nod. “I never got to know either of my parents very well, I’m afraid.”

Severus just stared at the boy. He really was Harry Potter. He admitted it. And yet… “You are not nine years old,” he ground out.

The boy looked faintly amused, “Physically, I am,” was his only response. “I am ready to begin if you would inform Lucius.”

Severus stared at the boy a moment more before calling for a house elf. He did notice that the boy looked at the elf with an expression somewhere between pity and disgust. Severus was not sure what to make of it.

Very shortly after the elf disappeared, another took its place, this time with a large piece of off-white cloth, which it arranged in the center of the larger circle, folding it repeatedly so that it created a barrier against the cold stone floor.

Shortly after it had finished, Lucius entered the room, personally levitating his father. He placed him gently onto the bundled cloth, then vanished his pajamas with a faintly regretful twist to his mouth. The older man was shivering hard, covered in sweat, and deathly pale apart from the feverish flush in his cheeks. He truly looked quite near death.

The boy approached the supine man, his staff once more in hand. Chanting lowly under his breath, he walked slowly and carefully around Abraxas, bringing the end of the staff down against the floor at regular intervals.

“He’s cleansing him of outside magics,” Lucius said with recognition and a little surprise. “I’ve read about it but I’ve never seen it.”

Severus observed the boy’s actions with interest. He’d honestly not done much with ritual magic. He’d studied it in school as he’d found it interesting, but potions and spellcrafting had always held his attention firmly enough that he’d given ritual magic little time. He’d done basic seasonal rituals, of course, but those were nowhere near this complex.

The boy completed his chant and retrieved another item from one of his pockets. It was a shiny purple gem larger than the boy’s fist. He placed it inside the smaller circle, then repeated the chant, tapping his staff all the way around the gem.

At last, he stepped away from the circles, moving to stand a pace away from the runic lines connecting the two circles. “Do not approach the ritual while it is in progress. You can move around and speak quietly, but avoid any sudden movement or loud noises while I am working. This ritual is pretty simple, but if there is a critical error your father’s soul may not be recoverable.”

“I understand,” Lucius responded gravely.

The boy nodded, then pulled in a deep breath, held it for several seconds, then let it out slowly, closing his eyes and seeming to center himself. Seconds later, he began a slow chant in a language Severus could not begin to identify. His voice was soft enough to barely hear it, but even so, it was certainly not Latin or any modern language Severus had heard of.

The runes began to glow and within a few minutes, they began to _move_ , slowly spinning around their own circles with the center circle rotating opposite the other two. The runes on the larger circle shrunk seamlessly as they moved to the smaller circle, then grew again to return to the larger circle. It was leagues beyond any ritual magic Severus had ever so much as read about.

The ritual took about half an hour, with the boy chanting softly the entire time, walking slowly around the perimeter of the runic array, his staff clutched in one hand, the moonstone at its apex glowing faintly all the time.

Perhaps ten minutes into the ritual, a faint silvery mist began to materialize in the air above Abraxas. Over the next ten minutes, it grew and solidified into a vaguely humanoid shape, which then began a very slow journey toward the gem waiting in the smaller circle. It grew increasingly condensed as it moved toward the smaller space.

As soon as the last of the mist left the larger circle, the shivering body went very still. Looking closely, Severus could still see a faint rise and fall of his chest, but the body no longer appeared to be putting up any fight to stay alive.

What little Severus understood of soul magic basically came down to what happened when a dementor consumed someone’s soul. From what he knew of that, the soulless body did not tend to live more than a couple of months, though often it was mere days. And those were healthy bodies. With no soul, the bodies continued to go through the involuntary motions and their minds functioned only well enough to follow basic commands such as eat, stand, sit, lie down. They contracted illnesses very easily and died of even the mildest of them.

He suspected Abraxas' body would not last more than a couple of hours given how weak he already was.

Eventually, the mist condensed down to a small, glowing silver ball, which then slid into the gem. The ritual continued unabated another ten minutes after that, presumably to be certain the soul was firmly ensconced within the phylactery.

Finally, the chant wound down, the runes slowed to a stop, and the glow of the runes faded to nothing. The boy stood still for a long moment, then stepped forward and scooped up the phylactery in his hand. He tapped it with his staff and tilted his head as though he was listening, then nodded with a faint smile.

“The ritual was a complete success,” he announced, approaching to pass the stone to Lucius, who accepted it as gingerly as one might a newborn babe. “I will clean up from this ritual, then purify the body. We are using the whole body?” he inquired.

“Yes,” Lucius said stiffly, “My father did not find appealing the concept of being dismembered.”

“Fair enough,” the boy nodded. “Once the body is purified, I can begin the potion. It will take about two hours and then I can begin the ritual to grow the body. Starting the ritual will only take a few minutes. Once that is done, I am afraid I will need to leave. I have another commitment this afternoon.”

“Yes, that will be fine,” Lucius replied, hardly taking his eyes from the stone in his hand.

The boy just nodded, then began retrieving items from his pockets again. A large potion bottle and a scrub brush were the first items. He set about pouring a bit of the potion onto the runes, then scrubbing them away with the brush.

Lucius moved over to the far side of the room where a few chairs were placed for spectators. He sank slowly into one, phylactery still cradled carefully in one palm. Severus took a seat at his side and they watched in silence as the boy scrubbed away all trace of the runic circles, then drew a cloth from his pocket and wiped away the potion with it. The items went back into his pocket, and more were produced. A large ceramic bowl was enlarged with a tap of his staff, then filled with water from a waterskin and a few drops of potion that turned the water a faint pink color.

The boy then drew another cloth from his robe and wetted it in the water. He then began to clean Abraxas’ body with slow, sure motions, beginning with his feet and working up to his head. He paused then and used a straight razor to shave off all of the man’s long, blond hair.

Lucius visibly flinched when the boy began to shave Abraxas’ head, but he said nothing as they continued to watch.

When the older man was completely bald, the boy gathered all the hair and tied it up with a ribbon, which he set aside. He then continued bathing the man’s head before flipping him onto his stomach with a gentle bit of magic. He followed the same process on the man’s back side.

When he was done, the contents of the bowl vanished with just a tap of the boy’s staff and bowl and cloth were both dropped into a pocket.

Severus’ eyes widened slightly when another item was enlarged into a two-meter-long, cast iron, claw-foot bathtub, into which he levitated the body, which no longer seemed to be breathing.

It was at that point that Lucius stood abruptly and left the room without explanation. Severus watched after his friend for a moment before standing and moving closer to the boy to watch as he began to prepare the potion. He could not imagine how hard this must be for Lucius. Severus’ mother had died while he was at school his fifth year. He’d not found out until he’d sent a dozen weekly letters and received none back. Finally, he’d gotten a short note from his father scribbled on the back of one of Severus’ letters. It had said only, _She_ _’s dead, stop writing to her_.

He’d never been overly close to his mother, but they’d loved each other. She’d been all he had in that house. Those six words from his father had been crushing. It was a miracle he’d been able to pass his OWLs at all. A greater miracle that he’d not killed Black or Potter in a blind rage.

And not at all surprising that he’d said something so awful to Lily in a moment of weakness. He’d not had a chance to tell her about his mother’s death. He hadn’t known how to even talk about it. And then she’d refused to listen. Refused to read his letters.

Dark Arts and the Dark Lord were the only things that had kept him from taking his own life at that point.

He focused back on the boy as more items were retrieved from his pockets. It took him a long moment to recognize the bags filled with blood as muggle blood bags. The kind hospitals used.

He barely held in a laugh at the realization that no muggles had perished to make this ritual possible. What kind of necromancer even knew about muggle blood banks, much less used them to avoid killing anyone?

His focus sharpened further as the boy enlarged a small workbench next to the tub and began arranging ingredients on it. A very tiny vial of clear liquid that was more than likely phoenix tears, some kind of powdered eggshell, what looked like apple seeds, a vial of some kind of blood, another liquid that was clear but slightly orange-tinted.

“May I ask what these ingredients are?” he inquired after a moment.

The boy looked at him, then shrugged. “The base for the potion is muggle blood,” he gestured toward the pile of bags still on the floor. “Phoenix tears, powdered eggshells collected after the hatching of healthy birds. In my experience, the type of bird doesn’t make any difference, but these are Merlin eggs because I enjoy a bit of irony with my brewing and we are in Britain. Apple seeds. Again, the type of fruit isn’t as important as that they’ve come from healthy, ripe fruit. Personally, I prefer apple seeds because they are a prolific and hearty fruit. This is blood gathered from an ovulating virgin. That one is amniotic fluid taken from a healthy pregnancy. All are muggle because introducing foreign magic to this potion is a really bad idea.”

Severus was officially fascinated. This potion seemed to be based on theory unlike anything he’d ever studied. He’d learned brewing method that was precise and rather scientific in nature. This was much more arcane. He’d heard vague mention once or twice about more intent-based brewing, but only in reference to ancient techniques long since improved upon.

The mere fact that the type of egg and fruit did not matter except perhaps with regard to how the brewer felt about them…

“How did you learn this method of brewing?” Severus inquired.

The boy chuckled a bit, “This is just how things were done when I first learned. It’s not as streamlined as potion brewing these days, but I think it’s more powerful. Much more difficult to learn and master, certainly, but more powerful.”

“You possess memories of a past life,” Severus posed.

The boy grinned a bit, but neither confirmed nor denied the supposition.

 _Fair enough._ “I don’t suppose you’d know where one could find books that may offer some instruction in this method of brewing.”

“I do, actually. I can make you copies from my own collection if you’d like,” the boy said, regarding Severus thoughtfully. “They’re basically priceless for how rare they are, but let's say twenty galleons a piece as it’s hardly any great effort on my part.”

Severus felt a rush of pure greed sweep through his entire being at such an offer. “How many books would you be willing to sell me?”

“On proper potion brewing? I guess I’ve got about twenty, maybe twenty-five at hand. The rest are stored away, but after you’ve gone through the first bunch, we can discuss more if you’re interested.”

Severus could not remember the last time he’d had to fight so hard not to smile. Before his mother died, likely. “I would be very interested,” he assured.

The boy nodded. “I’ll make the copies tonight. You’ll be here tomorrow, yes?”

Severus swiftly dipped his head in agreement.

“Excellent. Bring the payment and we can complete the sale before I begin work on the ritual,” the boy concluded.

Severus studiously kept his feet flat on the floor though he wanted to rock up and bounce on his toes for how excited he was. Severus was an exceptional brewer. Even among potions masters he stood out and was respected. His general knowledge and skill made him among the top twenty in the world, even if he wasn’t nearly so prolific as many in his line of work due to his little side job teaching degenerates. A cache of virtually untapped knowledge like this could easily propel him to the very head of the field.

Not to mention how his very blood sang at the idea of a potions related challenge. The boy had suggested that this was more difficult to learn and master than the standard modern method of brewing, after all. He wondered if it would be possible to combine elements of both methods for even more versatility.

Pushing those thoughts away for the moment, Severus reminded himself that he was here to observe the ritual and especially the potion brewing so that he could assure Lucius of at least whether it appeared feasible.

Also, this was really interesting.

As he began to work, the boy started singing. The words were, again, utterly foreign, the cadence rather lively. Even the melody was entirely unknown to Severus. The boy smiled as he worked and sang. At times, he transitioned seamlessly from one song into another in the same unknown language.

The first step for the potion was to begin emptying the blood bags over the body. There were fourteen bags in all, about seven liters. Not nearly enough to submerge the body, but the boy did make sure to at least wet every part with the blood.

Severus Snape had a pretty high threshold for creepiness, but this, in all honesty, was creepy. First, the fact that the body was a man Severus had known and rather liked since he’d first met him when Severus had been invited to spend Winter Break with the Malfoys during his first year. Next was his body being bathed in blood. Then the fact that the one doing the bathing appeared to be a child. Oh, and the upbeat singing was actually making it quite a bit worse.

Still, he was able to mostly ignore that as he objectively observed the process. A part of his mind was still crowing about those books that may explain a lot of what he was witnessing.

He added four bags of blood, spilling it all over the body and letting it trickle down to settle around it in the bottom of the tub. Next, he sprinkled the eggshells over the body, spreading them fairly evenly, but not with exacting precision. He must have premeasured the exact amount because he used it all without hesitation. Another two bags of blood followed, and he took care to use it to wash away the shells. The apple seeds got the same treatment, followed by two bags of blood, then the blood of the ovulating virgin, two bags of blood, the amniotic fluid, two bags of blood, seven drops of phoenix tears, and a final two bags of blood.

It was unlike any potion Severus had ever even heard of. The liquid was not sufficient to cover the rest of the ingredients, there was no flame or heat source at all, there was no stirring. And the boy went right on singing his cheerful songs the entire time, and Severus suspected that was as much an ingredient as the rest.

When all of the ingredients had been added, the boy continued singing as he shrunk the bench and returned it to his pocket, the drew out a tiny paintbrush and began to dip it into the blood collected around Abraxas. He then used that to begin painting a ring of runes around the top lip of the tub. When he was finished, the tapped his staff twice on the edge of the tub and the runes began a fierce red glow.

The boy stopped then to take a breath and fetched a bottle of butterbeer from his pocket. He took a few long sips before corking it and tucking it back away. Then he collected chalk and began drawing a runic circle around the tub. He began humming again as he worked and this time Severus didn’t think that had anything to do with the magic. This time, he made seven rings of runes around the tub. There was no overlapping and only one type of chalk, so it appeared quite a bit simpler than the last.

When he’d put his chalk away and dusted his hands, the boy looking into the tub again and nodded. “Now we wait,” he announced. “In approximately an hour and a half, the potion will have rendered down the body, simmered together, and produced an embryo. At that point, I will begin the ritual to grow the embryo into Abraxas’ new body. It will age about seventeen months every day, or a decade in a week.”

“I am curious about that,” Severus admitted as he followed the boy back over the seating area.

“Which part?” the boy posed as he sat down and produced his butterbeer again.

“It is my understanding of accelerated aging in general that it tends to produce less than perfect results. How will this be different?” he posed.

“Ah, yes. A good question. The answer is in the ingredients. We used Abraxas’ body as an ingredient. And not just a small bit of it, but the whole thing. From that, the potion has something of a blueprint to build on. In general accelerated growth methods, one is simply trying to cause aging to happen more quickly. In this case, we are quickly moving down a path the body in question has already taken. Now, were we to try to age Abraxas beyond the age he was when he died, we would run into the problem. This potion only ages the new body to the point it had been. Or less. Of course, it does so lacking any of the injuries or ailments he may have encountered along the way.”

“And what of the vaccine for Dragon Pox?” Severus wondered. “Lucius said you would use it, but wouldn’t that alter his ability to grow as he had before?”

“It shouldn’t,” the boy dismissed. “I studied the vaccine and it shouldn’t affect his development in any way. It will just add that extra immunity for him. Honestly, he’ll likely need potions to boost his immune system once he’s up and about. He’ll be lacking all the immunities he’s collected since childhood.”

Severus made a mental note to brew those potions soon.

“Any other questions?” the boy inquired.

Severus hesitated briefly before admitting, “I wonder if you would be willing to give me a brief overview of how your method of brewing works?”

The boy smiled a bit, but he seemed pleased by the question. “You are aware, I’m sure, that the most powerful magic hinges entirely on the intent of the caster. Well, consider this intent-based brewing. Instead of books filled with lists of magical ingredients and their properties when prepared to certain exacting specifications and added to the potion at certain precise stages, you must find ingredients that _feel_ right. To you specifically. For one potion specifically. At one specific time. From day to day or week to week or certainly year to year, the necessary ingredients may change _for you_. Sometimes you’ll be in a strange sort of mood and may need to rethink your ingredients to compensate.

“As I said, much more complex, but much more powerful. As you no doubt observed, what I just did with that potion was quite simple. The ingredients were ones that, to me, felt like healthy life, new life, and rebirth. The blood was necessary as the base because it is a staple of all living beings. Within the blood, the new life will grow.

“To truly master intent-based brewing, you must learn to understand yourself and the ends you wish to achieve on a very base level. Through this understanding, you will always know what you need to add to your potions.”

They passed the hour and a half rather easily in this manner. The boy seemed quite pleased to talk about potions theory, both modern and arcane. He ventured into other magical theory just as easily. If anything, he seemed rather pleased to have someone asking insightful questions.

It was fascinating enough that Severus actually managed to forget, almost entirely, that he was talking to a nine-year-old child. The child’s identity with regard to his parents was utterly ignored. The boy was not even a child, much less the smallest bit like his worthless father. Sadly, there was nothing of Lily either. Severus suspected the boy’s personality had been set long before he came to be in this particular body.

Severus found himself actually disappointed when a sudden flash of the runes on the tub indicated the potion was ready for the next step.

He rose curiously and followed the boy back to the prepared ritual. After a visual check of the contents of the tub — Abraxas' body was no longer visible at all, having apparently broken down into the potion — the boy began a chant, which activated the runes drawn around the tub. As he’d said, it took only a few minutes before he stepped back with a sigh. Unlike last time, the glow of the runes did not cease.

“All right,” the boy declared. “It’s set for the next twenty-four hours. The body will be matured enough tomorrow for me to add the vaccine. I’ll be here at ten as it will take over an hour to make sure the vaccine can properly adhere to the body, then a few minutes to restart the ritual. After that, the daily maintenance should take only a few minutes. In the meantime, just make sure neither the potion nor runes are disturbed.”

Severus nodded sharply. There was a part of him that didn’t want to let the boy out of his sight. He’d sworn a Vow to protect him after all, but he forced that urge away. This boy was certainly capable of protecting himself without help. Instead, he led him back to the receiving room, then went in search of Lucius. A stiff drink would not go amiss before he made a trip to Gringotts to withdraw the necessary funds to purchase those books tomorrow.

* * *

*** * * * ***

* * *

After a busy morning performing rituals, it was nice to enjoy a relaxing lunch out with Remus. In the nine or so months since he’d reconnected with Remus, Harry had forgiven the man his blind faith in Albus Dumbledore and even his unthinking prejudice toward his own kind. The poor man had had a rough go of it, being bitten at such a young age and raised by a creature hater with just enough humanity to teach his son to hate himself rather than chucking him out or outright killing him. Dumbledore’s “generosity” in letting him attend school despite his curse and the way he’d been raised to view himself had seriously messed with Remus’ head.

With Harry’s help, he was coming around rather nicely. It had taken a few months, but he’d eventually succumbed to Harry’s unmerciful logic and taken the potion to bring his two sides into harmony. He was a proper werewolf now, no longer fighting a constant battle between the two sides of himself. That transition had made an incredible improvement in the man.

The wolf’s self-confidence and the man’s cool rationale had combined into a pretty likable individual. No longer feeling like he had a monster in his head had gone a long way toward clearing up the self-loathing issues.

“So how was your morning?” Remus asked after a few minutes of enjoying egg rolls and fried rice and orange chicken in silence.

If there was one thing Harry appreciated above all others in the modern era, it was the diversity of food to be found in a single city. Gone were the days of traveling to the orient for Asian food. Yes, it tended to be somewhat influenced by local tastes, but it was still quite tasty.

“My morning was quite busy, actually. I was working,” Harry admitted.

Remus nodded his understanding and didn’t press. He knew well by now that Harry signed secrecy contracts for nearly every job he completed. They protected him and helped his clients to trust him. They also meant he didn’t talk about his work much except in the most vague of terms. “I still find what you do incredible,” Remus admitted.

Harry shrugged, “Magic in all its forms has fascinated me from my earliest memories. I’ve always wanted to understand how it works and how I can use it in more and varied ways. By this point, I’m rather staggered by how much knowledge I’ve accumulated about it. It tends to make it fairly easy to fix a lot of magical problems others could not. And the problems that take a bit more thought are even more enjoyable,” he admitted.

“What about you?” Harry prompted after a moment. “How is your owl order business shaping up?”

Remus sighed, “Well, apart from the fact that I could end up in Azkaban if anyone finds out about my… nature… it’s going quite well. John and Amita have both signed on officially.”

“I’m glad,” Harry grinned. The three werewolves had all taken Harry’s potion and lately decided to put their knowledge to use and to hell with bigoted laws against it. John, of course, had been an Unspeakable, and Amita had nearly had a potions mastery before she was infected.

Remus smiled a little, too. “Between the three of us, we’ve come up with some pretty interesting ideas. Borgin has already agreed to carry one of our catalogs in exchange for stocking some of our wares. At a considerable premium, of course. I think Scrivener’s on the ropes as well. We’re quibbling over the fine points now.”

“How many items have you three put together?” Harry wondered.

“Amita’s got a whole line of mood inks ready. I suspect those will be a big hit when the students are getting their school supplies. John is the mastermind behind the Multi-font Dictation Quill and its companion, the Multi-font Notation Quill, which is charmed specifically to record lectures. I created the Mapping Parchment, which will create a map based on everywhere the bearer of the parchment moves. That and the Animorphus potion, which will turn you into an animal for an hour if you put a bit of fur, feather, or whatever into it. Those are the two that got Borgin interested.” He blushed a bit at his own achievement.

Harry just smiled at the man. Remus was the frontman for the business as the only one of the three who was not a _known_ werewolf.

“We have a lot more in the works. I’d forgotten how much fun it was to just create things with friends,” his eyes grew distant and wistful and Harry knew he was talking about James and Sirius and Peter.

They continued to chat about ideas for inventions as they finished their meals, then headed out at a leisurely pace to walk a bit and enjoy the afternoon.

They’d walked a few blocks when Harry caught on that Remus was leading them somewhere specific, but he didn’t mind letting the man surprise him with whatever it was. He knew Remus well enough now that he trusted the man as fully as he could trust anyone. He knew the man saw him as a cub and would probably die before willfully harming him.

Eventually, they drew to a stop on a random bit of footpath in a residential neighborhood.

Harry looked around curiously, wondering what they were doing.

Remus cleared his throat nervously and Harry focused on him. “So, I, ah… Well, I wanted to show you something, but I’m not really sure if you’ll like it or not.”

“What is it?” Harry wondered, not really worried.

Remus shifted his weight a bit, then pointed with his chin toward the opposite side of the street.

Harry followed his gaze and it took him a moment to realize what he was seeing. Marching down the footpath with a scowl fit to melt steel, was Petunia Dursley. Dressed in a god awful maid uniform, her hair pulled back in a messy bun instead of teased to artful curls.

Remus cleared his throat again and Harry looked to him for an explanation before looking back to see Petunia stomp up the steps to one of the townhouses and unlock the door.

“The Dursleys had to sell their house on Privet Drive,” he explained. “Vernon got fired and hasn’t been able to hold down a job since. Petunia’s been supporting them since they moved here. Since she never went to college and doesn’t have any real skills, she’s been working mostly in cafes and pubs. Recently, she’s taken work as a maid at a cheap hotel. She’s not very personable, so she doesn’t tend to hang onto her jobs very long. Last time I think she was fired for flirting with customers who clearly did not appreciate it.”

Harry stared between the man and the townhouse, processing what he was hearing. “Why was Vernon fired?” he finally asked.

Remus scratched the back of his head. “Er… his boss took a sudden disliking to him.”

“Did he have a little help forming that opinion?” Harry pressed, beginning to feel amused.

“Could have,” Remus nodded.

A shrill voice could suddenly be heard from the house, shrieking about something unintelligible.

“Vernon’s taken to drinking since he’s been unemployed. Petunia hates coming home to it.”

Harry huffed a laugh. “You’re tormenting them in probably the best way possible,” he realized.

Remus straightened a little at the appreciation in Harry’s tone and he quirked a smile.

“Their status in that horrible neighborhood meant everything to them. Being the doting housewife was Petunia’s dream. Vernon loved being the stalwart provider. By Magic, Remus, you’re a genius.”

The man preened a bit at those words, though he was clearly trying not to.

“Is that all?” Harry wondered.

Remus dithered a bit before admitting, “Dudley suffered nightmares for awhile. He’s learned now though that he can avoid them if he just avoids bullying anyone. Every time that he does, he has nightmares of being bullied. Kid’s learning. That and junk food makes him terribly sick now, except in moderation after a healthy meal.”

Harry couldn’t help but laugh as he reached up to clap Remus on the shoulder. “Brilliant, Moons. Honestly, I find traditional torture rather boring and largely pointless. Reap what you sow is much more my style. Granted, if it gets bad enough for them to end up begging on the street, I’ll not complain.”

Remus’ grin turned rather feral at the permission inherent in that statement and Harry suspected the Dursleys would end up on the street before Remus left them alone. If he ever decided to do so.

Harry found that he didn’t care. It made him feel kinda warm and fuzzy that someone wanted to hurt those who had hurt him. He’d been subjugated by parents and caregivers many times over his lives, and by others as well sometimes. Generally, he was the one to get revenge if he was going to have any. Mostly he didn’t bother with that sort of thing. Not for something like the muggles’ reaction to their own fear of him.

He’d just dealt with too much of that sort to bother anymore. He tended to save his retribution for those who gained his trust and then betrayed it. Those foolish enough to do that… Well, let’s just say he still held a few of their souls captive.

To have someone care enough to seek vengeance in his honor, however… Well, it felt nice.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yay! Another chapter! This one was not meant to be nearly this long, but Severus was just so darn interested in every bit of the ritual, I couldn't not spell it all out.
> 
> I don't have a really detailed plot written out for this story, but I do have tons of notes with ideas that are sort of in order. It's enough for me to be super eager to get to this part or that part, so my muse may keep me going on this story for a while longer.


	6. Chapter 6

Sixteen days after beginning the process of growing Abraxas Malfoy a new body, Harry completed the ritual to settle his soul into it. Growing the body hadn’t been difficult. With the potion already knowing what it was meant to do, it was really just about waiting and maintaining it.

The Malfoys had chosen to age Abraxas only twenty years, saving a lot of time and expense, though he suspected that it had more to do with reclaiming forty years of youth for Abraxas than any concern for expense. Understandable, really.

The final portion of the ritual had been the most trying. It had taken him ten hours just to complete the runic diagrams. After a full night’s rest, he’d begun to move the soul from the phylactery into the body. Moving the soul into the phylactery wasn’t overly difficult because the soul didn’t really need to do anything while it was there. Moving it into a body that it was supposed to attach to and remain in until the death of that body was much more delicate.

In all, the final ritual took ten hours, which wasn’t too bad, all things considered. He’d spent as much as sixteen hours doing this ritual in the past, but it was clear that Abraxas’ soul knew what was happening and wanted to aid it, for it did not fight him at all as confused or unwilling souls sometimes did.

When he finally bled the magic out of the runes to end the ritual, it felt like he’d sent his strength away along with it. A few seconds on his knees and he was able to drag himself back to his feet long enough to stumble his way over to a chair. He fumbled in a pocket for his charmed flask, which provided an endless supply of cool drinking water. He sipped slowly as he watched Lucius approach his father. The body was perfect, of course. Hair and fingernails had grown in and needed to be trimmed every day the potion was maintained. He was pale, but it was a healthy pallor rather than a sickly one.

Quiet voices drew Harry’s attention and he focused on the pair again. It seemed that Abraxas had woken enough to speak with his son, which was fortunate. If he was able to confirm the success of the ritual, Harry was much more likely to get paid today. It wasn’t that he didn’t like Lucius and Snape just fine, but Harry was eager to return to regularly scheduled life.

Abraxas was asleep again within a minute and Harry recovered enough to stand once more. “It’ll take a week or two for him to recover physically. It’ll probably take two to four months of practice before his magic comes as naturally as it used to. His magic remembers what to do as does his mind, but his body does not. He will need to be patient a while,” he explained as he approached where Lucius knelt at his father’s side. Severus stood a small, respectful distance away.

“You have done what you promised, Mr. Potter,” Lucius acknowledged as he stood. “Incredible as it seems, you have truly cheated Death.”

Harry smirked a bit, “I just held him off awhile. Death always wins in the end. Just takes longer for some than others.”

Lucius nodded thoughtfully in reply. “Well, you have the gratitude of my family,” he said, retrieving a coin purse from an inside breast pocket. He offered it solemnly to Harry.

Harry stepped forward to accept it, slipping it directly into his pocket. He’d count it later, but he didn’t expect there would be any issue with it. Malfoy had more than enough to afford his fees, after all, and seemed smart enough to think better of crossing him.

“Well, then, I will take my leave. You know where to find me if you have any further questions or concerns. Or projects with which I may be able to assist.” With a nod, Harry showed himself back to the receiving room. No one accompanied him this time as he’d been back and forth enough times by this point to know his way. He didn’t doubt the manor wards were more than up to the task of alerting Lucius if he strayed where he did not belong.

He floo’d home and looked around the quiet space with a sigh of relief. The place wasn’t anything much, but it was home. It was private and it was his. He found himself a preserved meal he’d fixed in bulk earlier in the week and had a quick dinner before crawling into bed for an early night.

* * *

Morning arrived far too early to the sound of someone pounding on his door. With a groan, Harry kicked his legs over the edge of the bed and let their weight help him into an upright position. “Magic, what now?” he complained to the empty room.

The pounding came again and he bellowed out an irritable, “Yeah, just a minute!” in the direction of the door. With a growl, he more or less quickly switched his pajamas for robes, tucked his feet into a pair of slippers, then stumbled his way toward the door, finger-brushing his hair into some semblance of order.

He really hoped that this was going to be a desperate and wealthy customer willing to pay him large sums of money for the inconvenience of the hour before they even spoke of the problem at hand.

He swung the door open and, going by the bright red uniform robes on all three figures, he didn’t think he was getting paid today.

Keeping his expression confused, he politely inquired, “Can I help you, gentlemen?”

“That’s him,” one of the aurors nodded decisively.

The one in the front spoke up then, “Mr. Potter, we need to speak with your guardian immediately.”

Harry sighed a bit. Damn. He gave a moment of thought to his options. He didn’t actually have any emergency portkeys or even a back door. Running was unlikely to work. He could offer them tea, then spike it with a sleeping draught, but he doubted they’d fall for it.

Oh, well. It seemed he’d just have to wait and see where this led.

“Do come in,” he said with mild sarcasm since the lead auror was already stood in the doorway making it impossible to close the door. “Just a moment,” he waved at them to wait in the front room while he went into the back. He’d given them no reason to think he wasn’t going to comply entirely, so they waited.

He quickly switched his slippers for proper socks and shoes, then snatched up his staff and stabbed it into a rune he’d carved into the floor shortly after his arrival. A quick burst of magic was all that it took to activate the rune.

Like a purposeful whirlwind, every single item in the room that was in its rune-marked place began to fly around at once, packing themselves into their preset place in their specific trunk. A rush of items came sailing in from the front room as well. Each trunk was packed full, then shrunk itself down and packed itself in one of the other trunks until only a single trunk remained.

It went so quickly that by the time the aurors were rushing in to see what was happening, Harry was already tucking his staff and the book that had been left out on his bedside table into the last trunk and dropping the lid. He turned innocent eyes on them as they looked around the now nearly empty flat.

“Where is your guardian?” the lead auror asked firmly, but not harshly.

“I don’t actually have one,” Harry admitted as he activated the shrinking feature on the last trunk and tucked it into his pocket. As long as his things were locked away, the aurors wouldn’t be able to look through anything without due cause, which they wouldn’t have. He was just an innocent child, after all. If they _had_ looked through his things, he’d have undoubtedly been in a lot of trouble for possessing so very many books on Evil Dark Things. A large number of them he’d even written himself, though of course, they’d not know that.

“We’re going to need you to come with us, Mr. Potter,” the auror informed him.

“Thought so,” Harry sighed. He tucked his hands in his pockets and let the aurors usher him out of his home, to which he was unlikely to return, and down the alley to the nearest apparation point.

At the ministry, he was led into what seemed to be a conference room and then abandoned.

Harry huffed in annoyance after a few minutes alone. He gave it a few more minutes, drumming his fingers absently against the table, trying to ignore his growling stomach. Then he got up and tried the door.

It opened easily under his hand. He could only shake his head at it.

He wandered back into the corridor and looked around, but no one seemed to be paying him any attention. With a shrug, he made his way back to the lift and inspected the directory next to it. Ah, the cafeteria was on the atrium level. He covered a yawn with his hand as he stepped into the lift and pressed the number 8. He was alone in the lift but for some folded parchments floating near the ceiling, so he just hummed softly to himself as he waited.

When the doors opened, he shrugged passed the mildly curious folks waiting to board the lift and followed his nose toward the scent of food, which led him to an open pair of doors and the noise and bustle of a cafeteria at breakfast time. He found himself a tray and filled it with whatever looked tasty. Scrambled eggs and pancakes and ham and hash for good measure. He filled a glass from a pitcher of orange juice and happily paid the witch on duty. She gave him an amused smile, the “oh, aren’t you so cute” one. He returned it with his “sweet child” smile, then helped himself to a table in a back corner of the room.

He’d only just begun to eat when an auror rushed into the room looking panicked. The man dashed over to the witch running the till and exchanged a few words before she pointed directly at Harry. The auror sagged with relief before making his way over to Harry. He took a seat across the table from him and eyed him for a long moment, during which time Harry continued to eat and look as innocent as possible.

The auror had very dark skin and a single gold hoop pierced through one ear. He regarded Harry with his steady, dark gaze for a long moment, then sighed and leaned back into a more relaxed posture. “You weren’t supposed to leave the conference room, Mr. Potter,” he said at last.

Harry shrugged, “You people dragged me out of bed, kidnapped me from my home, then abandoned me without an explanation. And all before breakfast.”

The man nodded agreeably, “You weren’t meant to be left alone more than a moment. The Child Services department had a miscommunication on who was supposed to meet you. They were understandably alarmed to arrive and find you missing.” As he spoke, he drew a parchment and quill from his robe, scribbled something on it, then put the quill back in his pocket and drew his wand to give it a tap. It folded itself into a little glider and zipped out of the room.

“I was understandably hungry,” Harry countered. “I’ve spent enough of my life hungry. I no longer tolerate it.”

The auror frowned at that. “I’m sorry we put you in that position today, Mr. Potter,” he offered genuinely.

Harry waved away his apology, “I’m perfectly capable of taking care of myself.”

The man didn’t seem to quite know how to respond to that and instead just gave a small nod. “Well, as long as I’m here, I suppose I’ll have a coffee,” he rallied after a moment, excusing himself to pour a mug full of coffee from the pitcher that was obviously charmed to keep it hot considering the steam expressed when he poured.

It may have been free for employees because he didn’t pay before returning to the table to take a grateful sip.

He didn’t seem inclined to talk anymore at the moment, so Harry used the opportunity to continue eating in peace.

It was several minutes before an older man approached their table, helping himself to the seat between Harry and the auror. Harry always found it so tedious when people forgot all their manners in the face of a child. This man, for instance, would have more than likely requested permission to join them had Harry been an adult stranger. Considering he was a child, however, it was probably assumed that he’d feel out of his depth if expected to be particularly polite or formal.

With a sigh, Harry continued eating. It was troublesome acting his physical age, but he really didn’t want to deal with however the ministry may react if he attempted to explain that he wasn’t _really_ a child and they should just leave him be. Particularly considering his celebrity status, he doubted that would work. In fact, it may land him with a mind healer or even as an experiment with the Unspeakables. Certainly not worth the risk.

“Mr. Potter,” the auror spoke, drawing Harry’s attention. “This is Mr. Greengrass. He’s the director of Wizarding Child Services here at the ministry. I’m going to leave you in his care, okay?”

Harry just nodded, reminding himself to act like a very intelligent child and not a world-weary adult.

The dark auror, who’d never actually introduced himself, left then.

“It’s very nice to meet you, Mr. Potter,” Greengrass said when they were alone. “Is it okay if I call you Harry?”

He just shrugged, honestly not caring either way.

“All right, Harry. I need to speak with you today, but you go ahead and finish eating and then we’ll go back to the conference room to talk, okay?” he said kindly.

Harry just nodded and focused on his food.

Greengrass left him briefly to help himself to a cup of coffee with entirely too much sugar and enough cream it was hard to believe the man could still taste the coffee.

When Harry finished with his meal, he returned his dishes to the appropriate counter, from which they immediately vanished, no doubt back to the sinks to wash themselves.

Greengrass then ushered Harry back toward the lifts. Initially, the man placed a guiding hand lightly on his upper back, but when Harry shrugged away from it, he didn’t try it again. Harry didn’t have any particular aversion to being touched, but he had no particular desire to be touched by strangers either.

When they were seated in the conference room, Greengrass removed parchment pages and quills from his pockets and arranged them on the table in front of him. One of the quills, he touched with his wand and set it to hovering over a blank page, which Harry assumed was meant to record their conversation for the record. He then focused on another parchment in front of him and took the second quill in his hand.

Finally, he turned a warm smile on Harry. “Okay, Harry. I’m going to ask you some questions. You just need to answer them to the best of your ability, all right? Nothing too hard.”

Harry nodded.

“Okay,” Greengrass said again. “Now, I believe you told the aurors that you didn’t have anyone looking after you, is that right?”

“That’s right,” Harry agreed.

“Can you tell me how long you’ve been on your own?” he questioned.

Harry shrugged, “Awhile.”

“Was it before last winter or after?”

“Before.”

Greengrass nodded and made notes on his parchment. After a moment, he looked at Harry again. “Who was the last adult to look after you?”

“The Dursleys, I guess,” Harry shrugged, looking at the table and worrying his nail along the lip of it, doing his best to imitate an uncomfortable child. It wasn’t as though he hadn’t done this before, after all.

“Who are the Dursleys, Harry?” Greengrass questioned as he made notes.

“My aunt and uncle. I was with them since I can remember.”

The man made more notes, then questioned, “What happened to take you from their care to living alone?”

“They kicked me out,” Harry admitted.

The man blinked just once, then made a note and continued the questioning. “Did they tell you to leave?”

“No,” Harry shrugged. “Vernon took me into London one day. He told me to sit in the front, which he hadn’t ever done before. Then when we were in the city, he leaned across me to open my door and he just pushed me out and drove away. I figured that meant he didn’t want me to come back.”

This time, Greengrass gave a visible swallow as he made more notes. It took a little longer as he was writing more before he finally looked up. “Okay, Harry. What did you do after that?”

Harry started picking at his nails, keeping his attention focused on them. “Just walked around a while. Then I found the Leaky Cauldron. It… It felt safe. The magic, I think, but I didn’t know it then. I followed someone into Diagon Alley. I wandered down Knockturn Alley and found a place to sleep for a few nights. Then I went to the bookstore and learned that I was kind of famous,” he shrugged. “I learned about my parents and what happened to them and I realized that I might have some money at the bank from them, so I went and checked.”

“Your previous guardians never told you any of that?” Greengrass asked when Harry paused.

“No,” Harry promised. “They hated me. The only time they ever mentioned my parents was to tell me that I should have died with them and that they were worthless drunks.”

Greengrass actually dropped his quill at that. He snatched it back up hastily and cleared his throat as he made some notes. When he was done, he probed gently, “Is there a reason you didn’t try to get help after you realized who you were to our world?”

“I don’t really trust people,” Harry shrugged. “I had money. I figured I could get by okay. And I have been. I got a place to stay where they didn’t care about my age. I changed my eye color and hid my scar with potions from the cosmetic store because I didn’t want to be found. Living on my own, I got to sleep in a real bed, I got to buy clothes that fit and were comfortable for the weather. I got to eat when I was hungry and no one yelled at me or hurt me. It was better.”

Greengrass gave a mostly stifled sigh, “I understand, Harry, but Knockturn Alley is a very dangerous place for any child, but especially for you. Just because you haven’t been hurt there yet doesn’t mean that you couldn’t have been in the future. I can see that you are a very intelligent and resourceful child, but we simply cannot leave you to care for yourself.”

Harry couldn’t help but scoff at that, “If I was a werewolf you wouldn’t mind. Plenty of kid werewolves live down Knockturn Alley and no aurors show up to ‘rescue’ them.”

Greengrass looked alarmed, “Did you come into contact with them, Harry?”

Harry did his very best to not react to that. Magic, he hated prejudice. Sadly, it existed in virtually every society in the world, past and present. What the average person was prejudiced against changed, but the reasons tended to be equally superficial. Creatures hated magi, magi hated creatures, muggles hated magi, magi hated muggles, etc, etc, ad nauseam. In general, people tended to hate that which was different from themselves. Whichever group held more power tended to repress the less powerful group they hated. A few societies had risen above this. Atlantis, for example, had been pretty much blind to these differences in the last couple millennia. At least, from the perspective of government and policy. Individuals still harbored them, of course, but they were somewhat less prevalent.

The fact that this man, who was responsible for child welfare in this nation, could hear about homeless children and think only of the damage they could do because of their condition… It was truly unconscionable.

Most werewolf children weren’t homeless long, to be honest. They tended to get taken in by nearby packs fairly quickly after running away or being abandoned or orphaned.

With a calming breath, Harry just gave the man a grim look, “I’m perfectly fine.” But any warm feelings he’d had for this man’s obvious upset at Harry’s treatment had now officially vanished. He was likely a victim of societal and generational prejudice and knew nothing of worth about the creatures he feared and disdained, but Harry didn’t honestly care.

The questioning continued on a bit longer with Harry’s answers a bit more curt and impatient. Eventually, Harry was left alone with a pitcher of brewed tea and some biscuits as well as a pile of children’s books.

With an irritable sigh, Harry fixed himself a cup of tea and nibbled on a biscuit while he ran through his options for the future. He could run away, but he’d need to leave Britain. There was no way they’d let Harry Potter vanish again. Not after the uproar his current situation would undoubtedly cause. He’d need to move quickly and decisively and perhaps send for Remus once he was settled somewhere.

The only other feasible option at this juncture was to continue playing the intelligent child and let this situation draw to its inevitable conclusion. He didn’t think they’d try to dump him back with the Dursleys after the story he’d told. He’d definitely be placed with a family. Probably a prestigious wizarding family as he didn’t doubt plenty of people would want him once it was known that he was up for grabs. He could wait and see how it went and if his new guardians were overly stifling or cruel, he’d revisit the running away option.

Of course, option two would undoubtedly lead to him having to go on playing the child for years, which would be tedious, but doable.

With a sigh for the monumental bother all of this was proving to be, Harry enlarged his trunk long enough to retrieve the book he’d been reading most recently. He had no interest in reading children’s books. Once his trunk was again shrunken safely in his pocket, Harry opened his book and read while sipping his tea and munching more biscuits than was probably entirely healthy, but he supposed it wouldn’t hurt him to indulge this once. He spaced them out enough that they wouldn’t give him an upset stomach, at least.

His book was an interesting modern take on the true definition of Light and Dark magic and how they complemented and contrasted each other and why both were so important. It was a little naive in places, but Harry was accustomed to that. The average magus just did not live nearly long enough to understand magic properly, but that didn’t stop many of them from having some truly inspired ideas and philosophies. No matter how learned Harry became, he was determined to never let himself stop trying to learn more.

He supposed the day that he did was likely the day that he’d break his cycling rebirths and let himself pass on, for there would be little enough reason to endure.

After about an hour, the door opened again and Harry hastily stuffed his book back into a pocket, certain that it was not the sort of thing he would be allowed to retain should they discover it.

It was Mr. Greengrass again, and he gave Harry a warm smile and explained to him that there was a Wizengamot meeting in progress to determine Harry’s new guardian, which Harry doubted was how these things were normally done.

Well, he’d say this for his ridiculous fame, it made things interesting. He’d had plenty of lives where he was famous later in on life due to his achievements and such, but this was certainly the first time he’d been famous before he could even properly speak. It lent an interesting slant on things he’d been through before. Custody battles, for example.

“I need to get back to the meeting,” Mr. Greengrass smiled at him. “I’m the expert witness, you see. Someone will be by in about an hour to take you to lunch, though. And if you need the loo, it’s just across the corridor. Just please don’t wander anywhere else, all right?”

Harry gifted the man a small smile to go with his agreeing nod and then he was left alone again.

With a sigh, Harry went back to his reading and decided to go easy on the remaining tea and biscuits so he could actually have an appetite in an hour.

He used the loo once but otherwise read in silence. It was the dark auror from the cafeteria who escorted him down for lunch and he let Harry pay for himself, which was nice. Less overbearing than most adults could be with children. The man did finally introduce himself as Kingsley Shacklebolt. He admitted to having known James and Lily just a little. He’d been a couple years ahead of them in school, but he’d worked with James briefly in the auror office.

“You’ll find a lot of aurors remember James,” he said rather fondly. “He was a really good auror despite his age. He would have gone far in the department.”

Harry just nodded and kept eating. It was nice that people were willing to tell him about his parents, but he didn’t actually need it the way he would if he’d been nothing more than Harry Potter. He remembered his parents well, after all.

Lunch passed without much conversation after that, thankfully. Harry wasn’t precisely nervous about what would become of his situation after this. Considering his fame and the publicity of taking in their ridiculous Boy-Who-Lived, he seriously doubted his guardians would be cruel or abusive. However, he’d had enough families in his many lives, both blood and otherwise, to know that there were many ways one could make a child’s life miserable without abuse or cruelty.

Still, his best bet would be to pretend to go along with everything like a good little boy. Then, if he did decide to run, no one would ever expect it and they’d not take any precautions against it. He’d be far beyond reach before they realized their error.

This is why he returned to the conference room after lunch, only to find himself left alone for hours. He finished his book and found another one — making sure it wasn’t anything too “dark” just in case it was discovered. Come dinnertime, a different auror, who introduced himself as John Dawlish, escorted him to the cafeteria for dinner.

Another couple hours reading after dinner and Harry was thoroughly exasperated. He dreaded to think how the average British magical child was treated if this was what happened to him, their vaunted “savior”.

Eventually, Dawlish returned and transfigured a bed for him from one of the chairs. He tucked it into the corner, adding transfigured blankets and pillows as well.

“Sorry, lad,” he offered in response to Harry’s weary sigh. “I don’t think it should be too much longer. The Wizengamot has been in session all day, but they do love to argue.”

Harry huffed a humorless laugh, giving a moment to imagining a bunch of stogy old farts fighting over him. It probably wasn’t far off from the truth. He’d sat on bodies like that in the past.

When he was again left alone, he gave in with a sigh and crawled into the bed. He didn’t particularly fancy sleeping in a place just anyone could walk in at any moment, but that ritual had been draining and he hadn’t been allowed the long sleep the previous day that would have helped him to recover.

Dawlish was impressively good at transfiguration for the bed was divine, the blankets sinfully soft, the pillows both soft and supportive. He wondered briefly if the man had ever had to transfigure his own bedding or if this was just his general level of skill in the art.

Then his exhaustion won out and he didn’t think about anything at all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'd meant to do more with the ritual and Lucius and Severus, but I couldn't get it to agree with me, hence the last month of nothing. So I wrapped it up quickly and moved on.

**Author's Note:**

> As always, this is a work of fanfiction and in the spirit of fanfiction, I encourage anyone who finds themselves in any way inspired by my work to continue it, adopt it, translate it, use my tropes, themes, concepts, OCs, whatever moves you. All of my ideas may be considered free for your use.
> 
> Two things. First, if you do choose to use my work in part or as inspiration, I'd love it if you'd link back to my story as your inspiration or even just drop me a comment as to the existence of your story that I may read it.
> 
> Second, Don't Copy Word for Word. Don't Copy to Another Site. And credit what you take directly, otherwise it's just plagiarism. C'mon guys. You know who you are. Don't do that. Not cool.


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